by Chris Allen
“Of course. It’s exactly the same in England and back home in Australia. I remember the politicians, same old faces year after year, lining up to take the salute on the dais at our Veterans parades, or standing next to a war memorial with poppies on their lapels, just so they can post photos of themselves all over their social media pages. But those same politicians, when they’re pressed to stand up for Veterans’ rights, they disappear into the darkness like the cockroaches they are.” Morgan took a deep breath and let the air escape slowly through his nostrils. “So, where does John Nash fit into all this?”
“As you’d expect, Nash runs his own race. He’s difficult to keep track of because every time I feel like I’m making headway with him he has what he describes as ‘an episode’ and drops out. I have a theory about what those ‘episodes’ might be because there’s been some crazy shit going down in DC lately—” McDowell paused. It was as though he was checking himself before saying too much. “Sometimes I don’t see him for weeks, but it seems like those episodes are getting less and less. He’s been more responsive to contact with us at the VA; me particularly, because we served together. Hell, we were ‘Ranger buddies’ back at Ranger school. You know, you lose your name at Ranger school. No personal identity. Numbers only. Nash was 150 and I was 151. Anyway, I believe he’s making more contact now because he’s got himself in over his head with this thing, whatever it is, and he’s feeling exposed; needs backup. I guess that’s why he’s been trying to get hold of you.”
“So where is he now?”
“Well, let’s take a drive and I’ll show you. He’s expecting us.”
A few minutes later they were in the Explorer, the controls of which had been modified to account for McDowell’s injuries, and heading due west along Franklin, through residential streets lined with Scarlet Oak and American Elm. Lights were on in the battalions of traditional row houses as families settled in for dinner. They continued around the edge of the Trinity Washington University until they reached Michigan Avenue and turned left.
“How does a guy like Nash, a Congressional Medal of Honor winner, end up homeless?” Morgan said. It was more a thought he was pondering than the question it came out as. “I mean, doesn’t the President present those personally?”
“It makes no difference, man,” McDowell replied. “Once you get back and the system is done with you, you’re on your own. If you manage to make the transition into normal life then everything’s sweet, but if you don’t, then life gets about as fucked as it can get. You know that.”
Morgan did. He was lucky, although he knew that he and the other guys he’d served with all carried around some amount of damage from their experiences. Making the adjustment back to being at home without IEDs, mortar attacks or gunfire, or friends being torn apart right in front of your eyes, was harder for some than others.
“The guys who fall hardest when they get back are mostly the guys who come home to nothing,” said McDowell. “They come home with their unit. They’re in their dress uniforms with all their medals and there are parades and bands, their families and girlfriends. People are cheering them, calling out their names as they step off the plane. They feel like rock stars. But when that’s all done, there’s nothing – for some of them anyway. Some guys will come home to marriage breakdowns ’cause they’ve been away too long. They’ve lost their kids, their homes. Suddenly all that sacrifice and being told you’re a hero, the uniform and all the medals in the world, doesn’t mean shit anymore.”
“Even for a guy like Nash?”
“Especially for a guy like Nash. Remember, man, you said it yourself. He didn’t just get his medals from some general. He went all the way to the White House and got that CMH pinned to his chest by the President himself. He was headline news. A national fucking hero. The President saluted him. Then after all the fuss settles down, he gets home to find that his girlfriend has left him and moved on long ago, only she didn’t think to tell the guy until he turns up back home on her doorstep, wondering why she couldn’t come to the medal presentation but still thinking everything’s OK.”
“The ultimate rejection, after everything he’d been through,” said Morgan.
Now they were on Columbia, about to turn right onto Harvard. It was dark and starting to rain and a strong wind was building.
“And it doesn’t end there. Once they face that kind of rejection, then they start feeling resentful. What’s it all for? Why did I go through all that? All they see when they get back is that the country is more interested in making heroes out of Caitlyn Jenner, or Miley Cyrus, or even drug dealers on death row – whoever the latest pop culture flash-in-the-pan is. No one is interested in some grunt who’s done six tours in the desert and lost more friends than he can count on both hands – if he’s still got ’em – defending their freedom. Not to mention survivor guilt. Soon, guys like Nash regret ever joining the military and suddenly their attitude makes them an admin problem. They become a liability. They’re discharged. They walk away from the stability and routine of their unit, and the camaraderie and sense of belonging they took for granted the whole time they were in. When they march out of the gates that very last time, suddenly they’re no longer ten feet tall and bulletproof, and no one has their back anymore. They’re a civilian. Just a civilian, like everyone else. Only they’re not like everyone else and they struggle to fit in. Holding down a normal job is almost impossible and before you know it, their money runs out and they drop off the grid. Some turn to alcohol or drugs. Some get preyed upon by drug dealers and crooks after their pensions. And some end up dead because they won’t back down from punks who eventually overwhelm them by sheer weight of numbers. Worse still, they die alone by their own hand.”
They continued along Harvard as it narrowed into a one-way stretch with cars parked on either side all the way along, funneling them, as McDowell carefully negotiated the constricted space. Quite unexpectedly, Morgan wasn’t comfortable; an uncharacteristic uneasiness was getting to him. He was traveling along streets he didn’t know, it was dark and he wasn’t in control. With all the talk and reminders of war, he felt as though he was being channeled into an ambush. He was getting flashes of memories, a torrent of incidents and events from his deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan were streaming through his mind. Firefights, IEDs, mortar attacks and then it was 2008 again and Morgan was back in the Blackhawk as it spun widely out of control, the smell of avgas and burning oil fresh in his nostrils and the hail of Taliban gunfire that had hit their portside engine still cracking through the air, following them all the way down.
Moments later and they were through the single lane and back out onto the dual carriageway. The road was wider here and the street lights blazed across the intersection with Beach Drive.
“We’re almost there,” said McDowell.
Morgan, relieved, took a deep breath and shook off the melancholy that was tugging at his sleeve. No time for any of that now. They followed the road over a bridge and around to the left, and pulled into parking lot D out front of the National Zoo. McDowell switched off the engine.
“What’s this theory you’ve got, Rob? Sounds like something I should know about.”
“Ah, it’s nothing … Well.” He paused again. “Maybe we can come back to it some time. It’s probably just me being paranoid.”
Morgan definitely planned to come back to it. “So, what now?”
“There’s a bench down there a ways that faces across Rock Creek. We’ll wait until he’s ready to join us. Oh, and major, don’t offer him money or any kind of handouts. When a guy like Nash gets to this point, his self-esteem is already at the lowest it’s likely going to get. So, whatever he has left, in terms of his sense of self-worth, he’ll hang onto it. The last thing he wants is to feel like a charity case. You got me?”
“Yeah,” Morgan replied, reluctantly. He knew all he wanted to do was help Nash. The guy had saved his life and, risking his own on multiple occasions, had attempted to save the lives of all the o
ther men who were aboard the downed chopper that day. “It’s not going to be easy, though. I still haven’t got my head around the idea that he’s homeless. He should be living like a king.”
“We have to take our cues from him, major. If we handle this badly, he’ll vaporize again and I’ve spent weeks building up trust with him.”
“Has he lost it, you know, gone a bit crazy?”
“It’s hard to say. He’s not ready for help yet, so he doesn’t give much away. I first tracked him down at a soup kitchen when another Vet we were helping to get off the street recognized Nash and told us about him. Nash is convinced that there’s something he has to deal with before he accepts any help and that’s why you’re here. For some reason, he’s fixated on telling you and only you what it is that he’s into. All I know from the scant amount that I’ve managed to pick up from some of his rambling is that it’s fucking serious and, judging by his recent demeanor, imminent. If you ask me, he could already be in way over his head.”
“OK, so what do you want me to do?”
“Tonight, we sit, we wait, we listen and then we leave. We have to respect him and go along with however he wants to play this.”
The men got out of the Explorer. They pulled on heavy waterproof anoraks that McDowell provided, lifting the hoods up over their heads to fend off the rain, and walked in silence through the semi-darkness to the RV – the bench overlooking Rock Creek. Morgan checked his TAG. It was almost 8pm; 2000 hours in the old vernacular. They sat down on the bench and waited, the light rain drumming on their hoods and shoulders.
It was probably about ten minutes before a voice from the darkness broke through the rain. “Hey, Mack. I see you’ve got company.”
Morgan recognized the voice immediately.
“That you, major?”
“Yeah, it’s me, John,” Morgan replied. “Just me and Rob.”
There was silence for a while and Morgan had a sense that Nash was moving around them, remaining in the shadows, observing them under the illumination cast by the lights of the parking lot. After a time, Nash stood directly behind them.
“Mack, you mind giving me a moment with the major?” he said.
“You got it, man,” McDowell replied. “I made coffee. I’ll leave it for you guys and wait in the car.”
“Thanks, man,” said Nash. “And thanks for the coffee.”
Nash replaced McDowell on the bench beside Morgan. He offered a hand and Morgan shook it, firmly. Nash was dressed in what appeared to be mismatched military-issue waterproofs and boots. It was hard to tell in the dim light but Morgan thought he saw a beard. Thankfully, the wind and rain began to ease and the assault of the downfall upon them was instantly retarded by the trees that surrounded the bench. The two of them pulled back their hoods and looked straight at each other for the first time in almost eight years. There was definitely a beard, just as there had been back in the desert, and the face beneath it was gaunt but the eyes had lost none of their fire. Morgan could scarcely believe that this was the same man who had pulled him from the wreckage of the Blackhawk and with whom he had fought back the relentless attempts of the Taliban to finish them off.
“Yep, that’s the man I remember,” said Nash, mirroring Morgan’s thoughts. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“It’s good to see you, too, John,” Morgan replied truthfully. He picked up the flask McDowell had left for them and began pouring coffee into the cup. “It’s been far too long. If I recall, the last time I saw you, you were helping the medics haul me off a chopper while I was strapped to a gurney.”
He handed the coffee to Nash.
“Thanks,” said Nash, accepting it. He took his time drinking it, clearly savoring the moment as the hot coffee brought warmth back to his body. “You were pretty banged up, as I recall. You did well to manage shooting back at those bastards like you did.”
“Like we did,” said Morgan. “You got me out of that place. And I’ll never forget it.”
Nash topped up the coffee and handed the cup back to Morgan, who drank it down. Nash was on constant vigil. Morgan knew it. He appeared outwardly calm but Morgan could feel that the man was coiled and on the lookout for trouble. Christ! How did the life of a man like Nash come to this?
“Rob tells me you’re on to something,” said Morgan. He wanted to let Nash know that he still considered him in the way he knew or rather hoped the man would appreciate – as an operator and an equal.
“Years ago, before all this … happened,” Nash began, clearly referring to his current status. “I heard through the Special Forces grapevine that you’d left the British Airborne and had gone into some kind of specialist security or intelligence type work. When I heard that I thought, yeah, of course. He’s perfect for that. It made total sense, you know. Anyway, I haven’t forgotten that and when all this stuff started going down here in DC, I knew that you were the guy I needed.”
“Why me, though? Why not an American, you know, one of your own?”
“I need you because you’re not an American,” Nash replied. “Because you’re not an American, is exactly why I need you. This is so huge, major, so fucking huge, that I can’t be sure who already knows about it here in DC. Not even Mack. And right now there’s no time to be dicking around with who I can or can’t trust.”
“Surely, he’d never sell you out?” said Morgan.
“Not on purpose, but if Mack felt like he was doing the right thing, trying to help me out, then what I know could get into the wrong hands and it’d be buried in no time flat … along with me and probably even him. So, no. No Americans until I’m ready. Besides, I’ve always remembered your integrity and how much respect you showed the troops. Not many officers I knew ever treated the soldiers the way you did. I trust you. Always have. We clear?”
“OK, we’re clear,” Morgan replied, but he was skeptical. After all, no matter who or what Nash had been back in the day, he wasn’t an operator anymore. So what exactly was he talking about? What could possibly be so huge yet a homeless guy was the only person in on it? Perhaps Nash had lost it and become delusional because of post traumatic stress–related issues and a general loss of self-worth after ending up on the street. That was fair enough. After all, he was a Congressional Medal of Honor recipient. He’d given his all but he still needed something to focus his mind on, something that made him feel he had purpose again, and so his damaged mind had delivered something to him – one last mission.
“So, where to from here, John? What’s this all about?”
“Not tonight, major. I just needed to be sure it was you and I need to know that I can rely on you to keep this just between you and me.”
“Of course you can,” Morgan replied.
“I’ve got your word on that?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Because, when we get into this, I mean seriously into this, it is going to get heavier than anything the fucking Taliban threw at us back there.”
Morgan reached across and shook Nash’s hand. “OK, John. I’m in.”
“Meet me here, tomorrow night. Same time. Come alone.”
DAY 3 – SATURDAY
35th Street NW
Georgetown
Washington DC
“This is the place. I’ve got everything we need right here, so get ready to settle in for a while until things start to happen in about—” Nash checked his watch, one of those semi-disposable things they sell at petrol stations for next to nothing, “—four-zero minutes.”
Morgan folded himself down onto dusty floorboards and sat with his back against the wall. He’d spent the day on a variety of admin-type tasks, which included checking in with Sheridan and updating him on what had occurred so far. Sheridan agreed that the least Morgan could do was spend a couple of days in DC and see it through. He owed Nash that. And, who knew, Nash may just be on to something. After the call to Sheridan, Morgan had organized a hire car and also gone out and bought some more appropriate clothes. When he’d been sent out to Pe
ru to recover Pedrosa, he hadn’t really packed for Washington DC in winter. Finally, through the Intrepid liaison officer at Interpol’s Washington Office, he’d also managed to borrow some bits and pieces that he thought might come in handy.
The building Morgan and Nash were in was a condemned row house close to the university, although, according to Nash, the demolition date had long since come and gone. Apparently the investors were having money problems, so no one was in any hurry to knock it down and rebuild. There was no light in the room save for a sliver or two that ran across the walls whenever a car drove down the narrow street. Nash had dumped his waterproof jacket and was wearing a black sweatshirt with the Batman logo across the front. He had a pencil-thin flashlight clenched between his front teeth, which he was using to sort through a bundle of newspaper and magazine articles taken from a resealable plastic bag that he carried around with almost reverential care. When he had them all laid out in the corner of the room farthest from the windows, he summoned Morgan over.
“I need to show you these, so you can familiarize yourself with the key players,” said Nash. “All you need to know right now is who they are and what they look like. I’ve collected as many pictures of each of them as I can so you have the best opportunity possible of not only being able to spot them but, most importantly, to confidently identify them.”
The first clippings were of a man who was probably in the late forties, early fifties range. His skin was evenly tanned and, even on the printed page, it shone with vitality. The dark eyes were shrewd and the teeth were bright and perfectly aligned. The hair was thick, turning gray, and had receded to a point almost in line with the crown of the man’s head. Morgan estimated that the man was probably about six feet tall, judging by the group photos in the collection. He favored pale gray suits and colorful ties. According to the news clippings, the man’s name was Redmond.
“Bartholomew T. Redmond, the Republican Senator from Georgia. Campaigns on family values, education and taking care of veterans,” said Nash. He retrieved a well-worn field notebook from his pocket, opened it and consulted its pages. “I’ve got everything in here. Dates, times, addresses, bios. It’s like my bible. Let me tell you about old Bart T., major. He’s on a string of Senate committees including Armed Services, the Budget, Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, Appropriations, Security and Cooperation in Europe, and Foreign Relations. Not to mention a dozen other sub-committees. He’s considered one of the most influential men in Washington and many consider he’ll be the lead Republican contender for the Presidency in 2020. He’s married with three teenage children, a son and two daughters, all at the best schools. He’s our guy. Remember that face.”
