As he readied his desk for work on a bright morning, Alton spotted Graham advancing and sighed. Graham’s propensity to substitute pomposity for competency had—if anything—grown worse. Graham viewed Alton as a competitor rather than a teammate. Fearful of Alton’s response to overt actions, he didn’t actively sabotage Alton’s work, but he lost no opportunity to disparage it.
Alton bore the attacks stoically, letting his results speak for themselves. Much to Graham’s chagrin, they did, and over time Graham seemed to have become desperate to undermine the person he viewed as his chief competitor for future promotions.
“How’s the hero this morning?” sneered Graham as he passed Alton’s desk. “Are you going to join those of us getting the real work done?” Not expecting a reply, Graham continued down to his adjacent section.
Alton didn’t dwell on the question. He was more concerned with a spike in Al-Qaeda signal traffic. The volume of messages was too much for either squad to decrypt and translate individually, so Alton approached Graham to divide the messages between the two companies.
An hour later, Alton noticed Graham slip away from his desk. The man took a circuitous, unusual route to General Mooreland’s office in an apparent effort to avoid Alton’s desk. Minutes later, General Mooreland made a terse announcement over the camp’s PA system. “This is General Mooreland. We’ve intercepted an Al-Qaeda message. They are planning a suicide-bombing assault on the front gate, to be followed up with ground troops once our wall is breached. All infantry: invoke security protocol echo and report to your defensive positions immediately. All other units report to battle stations. Infantry Bravo Company will deploy its M2s in a defensive perimeter around the front gate’s interior courtyard.”
Alton almost felt sorry for the attacking Al-Qaeda troops. The tripod-mounted machine guns could pack a wallop.
Captain Graham emerged from the general’s office, looking practically jubilant. No doubt he viewed his status as the first person to share the news of the impending attack with General Mooreland as a notch in his belt. Alton shook his head in frustration. Who cared if American troops might die, as long as Graham looked good?
General Mooreland made a new announcement over Delta building’s PA system. “The intercepted Al-Qaeda communication indicated that the attack may be accompanied with mortar fire. Our building is closest to the front gate and therefore in the most danger of being hit. All personnel evacuate to Charlie building at this time.”
Alton admired the efficiency with which Delta building’s occupants responded to the order. He realized the efficiency would leave him trailing. Not wanting to put his troops in danger of the impending mortar fire, he shouted, “Go ahead. I’ll secure the area.” As he struggled to his feet, he felt a nagging sense that something was amiss. For all his bluster, Graham wasn’t a particularly skilled cryptographer. Alton felt strangely skeptical that Graham had managed to decrypt and translate a message of that magnitude so quickly. Am I the one being jealous now?
To assuage his anxiety, Alton pulled up the batch of intercepted messages he had sent to Graham for decryption. As he scanned the type of encryption used for the first message, his suspicions were instantly raised. Al-Qaeda had known for two months that coalition forces had cracked that code. It was the reason they stopped using it. Why would Al-Qaeda suddenly start using it now, especially for a mission this important?
Alton scanned the subsequent Al-Qaeda communications and grew more concerned as he realized they employed a new, heretofore uncracked code. He spent the next quarter of an hour feverishly working to crack the encryption algorithm of three messages that used this new code, applying his analytic skills as never before. He finally solved the cipher and began furiously decrypting and translating the communications. As his cryptography software translated the last words of the final message, his heart sank. The frontal-attack message was a decoy. The real attack would occur at the camp’s rear wall!
Alton reread the planned assault time in the last message and looked at his watch: Six minutes to go! Realizing he had no chance of explaining this new information to the general in time to redirect the camp’s defensive efforts, he used the code he just cracked to send an encrypted message back to the Al-Qaeda forces: “We’ve been spotted. American troops and snipers are waiting in position at the rear wall. Fall back.”
Alton hoped the message would fool the attackers, but he knew he couldn’t count on its success. What if they didn’t read the message before the attack began? Even if they did, would they have time to relay the message to their troops who by now must surely be massing behind the rear wall? Visions of the explosion in his mobcom van floated through Alton’s mind. He grimly clinched his jaw. If the US lost soldiers this time, it wouldn’t be because of him. He shouldered his M4 rifle and headed for the door.
For the first time since his injury, Alton broke into a run, heading directly for the site of the impending attack on the camp’s rear wall. He had made it almost halfway there when a white-hot tearing sensation pierced through his injured leg, as though a bullmastiff had somehow bitten him inside the limb without breaking the skin. He grabbed his thigh in agony. In his rush to reach the site of the assault, he had left his cane behind.
As Alton began to despair of preventing the attack, two Marine corporals rounded the corner on their way to the front gate.
“Wait!” screamed Alton. “There’s an imminent security breech on the back wall. Help me get there. I’ll explain on the way.”
One of the Marines lifted Alton’s arm over his shoulder, helping him hobble along.
Between breaths, Alton gasped, “The frontal attack is a decoy. Al-Qaeda insurgents are planning to scale the camp’s rear wall and attack with shoulder-fired rockets and then ground troops. I guess they figured they’d be more successful if they could convince us to mass our defenses on the opposite side of the camp.”
As they made their way to the rear wall, the Marine unencumbered with assisting Alton radioed for additional troops. “Where exactly are we going?” he asked Alton.
“The northwest corner—the motor hall,” Alton replied through clenched teeth, the pain in his leg growing worse each second. He glanced at his watch. It was time for the attack to begin. Dammit!
They made a final turn around the last building and reached their destination. Alton leaned against the brick motor hall building, gasping for breath. His heart felt like it was trying to tear itself out of his chest, and pain lanced throughout his leg and up into his lower torso. Sweat poured off his face and formed a stream running down his chest and back.
An insurgent with a Yugoslavian M80 rocket launcher bandoliered across his back crested the top of the camp’s rear wall. Still leaning against the motor-pool building, Alton raised his M4 carbine and took aim, trying to calm his pounding heart sufficiently to line up the terrorist in his sights. Center mass…just aim center mass. As the terrorist brought the rocket launcher to his shoulder, Alton slowly exhaled and squeezed off a shot, sending the insurgent tumbling backwards off the wall.
Another Al-Qaeda fighter nimbly scaled the wall and alighted atop it in a crouch. Before the terrorist could move again, the Marine to Alton’s left landed a head shot, exploding the top half of the man’s cranium and sending his limp body tumbling forward to the ground in a slow arc. Two more insurgents peered over the top of the wall but ducked back behind it as a fusillade of rounds from Alton and the Marines kicked up a cloud of brick dust.
The trio of soldiers stood vigil, alert for additional enemy forces, but none appeared. Bolts of agony shot through Alton’s leg, and his vision blurred. As the first US reinforcements arrived, he unceremoniously dropped to a sitting position on the ground, nearly unconscious from pain. Through his blurred vision, Alton thought he saw Mallory among the gathering crowd but couldn’t be sure.
General Mooreland and additional troops arrived. The Marines excitedly shared a summary of the battle, while Alton sat in the gravel with his head between his legs, brea
thing deeply and struggling to maintain consciousness through the blinding pain.
“Deploy four squads of infantry against this wall,” barked the general. “I want an additional infantry company in Bradleys out on the street to mop up what’s left of those bastards.” Several infantry officers began shouting orders.
“Medic!” shouted Mallory, her voice confirming her presence. “Is there a medic here?”
A female staff sergeant with a red cross on a white armband rushed over and began rendering aid. She removed Alton’s ACU shirt and laid him flat on the ground.
“What happened?” asked Mallory. “Are you okay?”
Alton felt strangely at peace. He wished his vision wasn’t so blurred. He would have liked to look at her clearly as they conversed. “It’s the same leg,” he mumbled. “Something… snapped.”
Mallory laid a gentle hand on Alton’s shoulder yet turned her head away from him for a moment. She turned back and murmured, “You’ll be fine. Here comes the stretcher now.” After a pause, she continued, “You know Dr. Dunwoody is going to give you hell for this.”
Alton emitted a single laugh and then winced at the pain it produced.
“I’m sorry—,” began Mallory.
“Don’t be,” interjected Alton, his mind drifting in and out of focus. “Nothing could make me feel better…than your being with me here…right now.”
Mallory turned her head away once again, and the stretcher arrived. The medics expertly lifted Alton onto it and turned towards the hospital. As he was carried away, Alton heard the staccato report of gunshots from the other side of the wall, reminding him of how close the camp had come to being overrun.
After spending a few hours in the camp hospital, Alton returned to his quarters. He had just settled into them when a private brought an order for Alton to report to Delta building that evening to debrief General Mooreland.
Assigned to a wheelchair once again, Alton rolled himself to Delta building at the appointed hour. In addition to General Mooreland, a number of officers as well as Alton’s Signal Bravo Squad soldiers were in attendance. The group crowded around Alton, who quickly recounted the day’s sequence of events to the engrossed audience.
“I can see why you rushed to the back wall,” said Major Kyle, an armor officer on the general’s staff, “but what made you suspicious of the message Captain Graham translated?”
“It employed the same trick the US used against Japan prior to the Battle of Midway Island in World War Two,” replied Alton. “We sent a message to our troops on Midway using a code we knew the Japanese had cracked, specifically to see if they’d bite, which they did. Using that old code for future communications allowed us to feed misinformation about our fleet deployment and was key to winning that battle.”
“But why did you re-read Captain Graham’s work in the first place? Why didn’t you leave like the rest of us?” pressed the major.
Lieutenant Garcia, Alton’s right-hand man, spoke up. “‘Cause we’ve seen Captain Graham’s previous work—that’s why. It sucks.”
Alton held up a hand as the crowd snickered. “At ease, Lieutenant.” He turned to Major Kyle. “The threat was important enough to warrant a second look at the transcribed message. I would expect someone to run the same check on my work for a message as important as this.”
The meeting broke up. As Alton wheeled himself out of Delta building, he saw a figure in the shadows. The figure stepped forward. It was Graham.
“Do you know what it’s like having everyone expecting me to follow in my father’s footsteps?” he asked. “The great General Graham—Desert Storm hero. And here I can’t make it past Captain.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode away.
Alton felt for the man. He hadn’t known Graham’s father had been in the Army, much less held the rank of general. The knowledge reassured Alton he had acted soundly in deemphasizing the man’s role in the potential debacle that had nearly played out that day.
Alton neared his barracks and was surprised to see another soldier waiting in the shadows for him. This time, he was pleased to discover Mallory approaching.
“What’d the doc say?” she asked without preamble.
Alton was strangely uncomfortable discussing his physical imperfections with Mallory, but the concern she expressed warranted some type of answer. “It’s hard to say. I tore the muscle again. She said it’ll set me back for now, and the long-term impact is…a little less clear.”
Something about Alton’s demeanor must have tipped his hand, for Mallory leaned in and asked, “Haven’t you said before that you couldn’t overdo your PT or you’d risk reinjuring yourself? Didn’t you say if that happened, you wouldn’t heal as well long-term?”
Alton swallowed. It was the truth, both then and now. Earlier in the day, Dr. Dunwoody’s prognosis had been grim. She had never expected Alton to fully heal, but today she had lowered her estimate of his eventual recovery.
“Yes,” he whispered. “But I’m going to keep working on the PT. If I quit now, I’ll just regret it later, however much I do—or don’t—recover.” He wished he could see her face. His vision had recovered from earlier in the day, but now dark shadows hid her countenance. At one point in the past, Alton had considered pursuing a deeper relationship with her, but over time this aspiration had faded as the futility of it had sunk in. The camp’s other male officers were attracted to her like flies to honey. He couldn’t blame them. Mallory was clever, funny, and quite the looker. Even if he were whole, Alton wouldn’t have fared well against that kind of competition. After today, though? If his injury hadn’t repulsed her before, it couldn’t help but do so now. He would have liked to see her at this moment, as her face would have revealed the extent of her distaste.
“Alton, your friends…we’re here for you,” said Mallory. “Let us know how we can help.” She walked away without warning.
Had Alton made her angry? He didn’t think so. Her voice had trembled when she spoke. Perhaps she had reached the end of her tolerance of his injury. Alton sighed, realizing it had been a stressful day for everyone. Whatever was on Mallory’s mind, he couldn’t blame her wanting to get back to her own barracks.
CHAPTER 26
Research Triangle Park, North Carolina
“What lot are we examining today, boss?” asked the lab technician.
“Number fifty-four,” replied Luis Romero. “Level five is the live sample, and level four is the control.”
The room held long rows of stacked cages, silver and antiseptic, each of which contained a laboratory rat. Romero and the tech began at the far left cage and slowly worked their way along two of the rows, extracting a blood sample from each specimen. Romero then settled into a long day of microscopic examinations.
That evening, Romero called the company’s director of research. “Mr. Finch, I think we may be on to something.”
“What results are you getting, Luis?” asked Jeffrey Finch.
“In lot fifty-four, we’re seeing seventy-seven percent immunity in the live serum group versus three percent for the control. It looks like we have a breakthrough.”
“Are you still seeing the lethargy exhibited by the other test lots? Are there any other obvious side effects?”
“No, sir—not yet,” replied Romero, “but of course we’ll need to monitor the rats for a while, especially since this formula seems to be on the right track.”
“Thanks, Luis. Keep me apprised, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” Romero felt a surge of excitement, hoping this was the breakthrough for which they had been waiting. Romero was well-acquainted with the near-tragedy that had nearly befallen Finch’s son. As a recent grandfather, the lab supervisor held a new appreciation for the project’s importance in safeguarding children around the world. Until now, the project had struggled to make any headway, and Romero could only hope their luck had finally changed.
Three Months Later
CHAPTER 27
Kabul, Afghanistan
Al
ton, Mallory, and David lounged with a group of several other friends at the bar in Gandamak’s Lodge.
“How’s the physical therapy coming, Al?” asked David, noticing Alton wince as he shifted his weight on the barstool.
“‘Alton,’ not ‘Al.’ And it’s just about finished, thankfully.”
“And are you feeling back to normal…?” asked David tentatively.
Alton wished he wasn’t having this conversation in Mallory’s presence, but there was no avoiding it now. While he clearly couldn’t deny the existence of the injury, he still felt strangely uncomfortable making a point of discussing it in front of her.
“Well, you know I’ve worked diligently. I didn’t want to slack off during the PT and then regret later that I hadn’t had a more successful recovery. If I had, I’d always be wondering, ‘What if I had worked harder? Would I be more whole than I am now?’ But, despite my efforts, I haven’t regained full function, just as Dr. Dunwoody predicted.” He was silent for a moment. “The femur and surrounding muscle were too badly damaged from the initial bombing and were exacerbated by the two re-injuries I’ve had since I came here. I’ll always have this limp.”
Mallory seemed to sense his mild discomfort with the subject and gently turned the conversation to other topics, but with such a deft hand that none but Alton perceived her design. Of all Alton’s friends besides David, she was the only one who neither showered him with pity nor pretended to be ignorant of the injury altogether.
Alton’s mind traveled down a path it had visited many times before. Did Mallory use her social grace to mask pity? Or did she simply accept that the injury was a part of his identity? As before, he couldn’t say with certainty which alternative was true.
The band of soldiers gathered at the Lodge eventually agreed it was time to return to camp. Earlier in the evening, when he had been seated with David and Mallory and lost in conversation, Alton had almost forgotten that he was injured at all. As he rose to leave, though, he couldn’t help but be painfully reminded, grimacing with the effort of standing.
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