by Tom Calen
Tracing the sound to the far corner of the mess, Paul was sure the shock he felt was written on his face. Sitting alone at a small table, Benjamin Hicks was pressing the instrument to his lips, the tune of Sweet Home Alabama echoed off the steel walls. Slowly, perhaps as confused as Paul, men and women began singing the song’s lyrics. Softly at first, but then with increasing volume. Soon, all present were boisterously engaged in song. Hands clapped the beat, and feet stomped to the rhythm. Without realizing, he found himself joining in the raucous singing.
When the tune came to end, Hicks transitioned to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ and again the mess boomed voices. A slight nudge at his back caused Paul to turn, finding others filing into the room, clearly drawn out of their berths by the outbreak of music. Hicks and his harmonica were then accompanied by Glen Mitchell on the guitar. By the third or fourth song, Paul found Lisa by his side, singing just as loudly as the others.
Song after song guitar, harmonica, and chorus blended seamlessly and lifted the somber mood. Faces previously shadowed with anxiety were now split with wide smiles and laughter. Paul, his unsettled stomach forgotten, took several passes at his plate, alternating between chewing and singing. Humorous dancing broke out even though the mess was filled to capacity, and beyond. Lisa used Paul’s hand to twirl herself in circles. She even managed to have him dancing to Brown Eyed Girl—his faulty footwork had onlookers roaring with laughter.
He had always been self-conscious when it came to dancing, often feigning injury or disinterest to avoid it. But in that moment, he was unencumbered by modesty or awkwardness. His feet moved in time with Lisa’s, her eyes sparkled with love and life, and for a brief time there was no virus, no loss, no mission.
Eventually the room began to thin as yawning members sought the comfort of their beds, though all could be heard humming through the passages. Paul glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that a full three hours had passed during the unplanned concert. He had wanted to voice his gratitude to Hicks, but the man had hustled out once the music came to an end.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, which owned most of the space in the quarters, Paul methodically undid the lacing of his heavy, dull black combat boots. As used to their feel as he was, it was always a welcome relief to remove their cumbersome weight each evening.
“I just don’t get Hicks,” he muttered, more for himself than for Lisa. “Did you even know he could play the harmonica?”
Slipping beneath the covers, she replied. “No, but does that really shock you?”
“That he can play the harmonica?”
With a laugh, she adjusted the pillow beneath her head. “No, that there’s stuff we don’t know about him. In the years we’ve known him, I don’t think he has said more than a few sentences.”
The two discussed the enigma of Benjamin Hicks for a few moments more, but soon Paul could hear the slow, shallow rhythmic breathing of his companion. His own sleep was much longer in coming as thoughts of Hicks, the mission, and the dangers ahead travelled through his mind in a continuous loop, one thought feeding another.
--
The second day at sea was much as the first, with winds and rain lashing at the two ships fighting through the stormy waters of the Gulf. Thinking fresh air might ease his sea-weary stomach, Paul briefly stepped out onto the deck. Rain and saltwater stung his face, driven like icy needles by the fierce, keening wind. Waves crested the rails of the ship, quickly forcing him to return below. Though the weather and seasickness still plagued him and others, the downcast mood of the day before had not returned. He was relieved to see many from his team engaged in card and dice games in the ship’s mess, while still others talked and joked lightheartedly in various parts of the ship. The effects from the prior evening’s concert had lasted through the first night, and he hoped that would continue until shore was reached the next day.
He walked the labyrinthine passages of the Mohawk, stopping outside the heavy, steel door to Hicks’ quarters. Paul wrestled with the idea of knocking, but soon turned and strode away, resuming his fourth circuit of the ship. He wanted to be able to like the man—or at the least trust him—but the standoffishness that Hicks continuously exhibited made that all but impossible. He is who he is, Paul decided. As long as he can be counted on to fight, then that’s all I can expect. Though not one to volunteer for a mission, Paul had seen Hicks take down almost as many Tils as he or Mike had over the years. That’s all I can expect, he repeated to himself, but the question that had kept sleep at bay the last two evenings burned with demand. Why did the Council insist Hicks be on the team?
--
Early on the following morning, word spread through the ship the Texas coast had been sighted. Paul was already on the bridge when the Officer on Watch made the declaration. Even with the high power of the binoculars he peered through, he was unable to identify much beyond fog and sea. In time, the OOW’s words were proven true and the first hints of land were visible to the naked eye. The heavy rains that marred the journey from its outset had ceased, though the sky still held a gray fatigue that threatened storms to come. The morning mist burned off slowly, but with each passing minute, decreasing fog and distance, Port Aransas became more distinct.
The small coastal town, located less than an hour from Corpus Christi, had an extensive history in American lore, ranging from its importance in the Civil War to the rumors of buried treasure left by pirates. Port Aransas had been all but leveled during a hurricane in the early twentieth century. In true Texas style, the citzens had not been discouraged, and soon rebuilt the town. By the time of the outbreak, Port Aransas was a popular destination for vacationers and fishermen alike, at times even hosting the more frugal students celebrating spring break.
Looking through the binoculars, Paul believed another hurricane had swept through Port Aransas in the last few years. Beyond the simple decay of time and neglect, the small town showed signs of severe damage from wind-sheared roofs, toppled trees, and collapsed buildings. Though not their final destination, it was however, an unfortunate image of the town destroyed that greeted their arrival.
The Mohawk and the cargo ship eased into the channel that would deposit them into Corpus Christi Bay. With a gleeful shout, one of the helmsmen pointed out quick flashes that broke the surface of the calmer waters of the channel. Paul could not fight the smile that crept across his face as he pressed closer to the bridge’s windows to watch dolphins pace alongside the Mohawk. The majesty of the aquatic mammals could not be ignored, and soon men and women lined the railings of the decks pointing at each new break in the water. They had of course come across dolphins in other missions, but at most they had seen one or two travelling the waves. This pod, however, easily numbered several dozen.
The engines of both ships slowed to a gentle drifting while heading southwest into the bay. After two days trapped below decks, Paul thought some might complain about the slow movement in their eagerness to disembark, but all eyes stayed with the dolphins playing in the water.
Soon, the wonderment was forced to an end as three long docks came into view, the longest stretching almost a quarter mile into the Bay. The docks were the remnants of the U.S. Naval Station Ingleside; once part of the Naval Region South, the base had been closed in 2010. Members of the ships’ crew, as well as Paul’s own team, moved purposefully about the decks as the two ships began the process of docking. Without a tugboat as guide, the ships’ captains had to rely on the precision of practice to ensure no damage to either craft. Lines were thrown and tied off by men that had been dispatched to the dock via a pair of small inflatables.
In all, Paul estimated ten minutes had passed before the captain was content that his ship was secured to his satisfaction. On the other side of the dock, he could see the same process drawing to a finish on the cargo ship.
Once the gangway was placed, the captain turned over operational command to Paul. Though the ships had been given over to the mission, it was made quite clear that the M
ohawk’s captain was in charge until land was reached. Unwilling to enmesh himself in a maritime law dispute, he had acquiesced to the point that he had avoided the bridge until that morning.
The former park ranger ordered the deployment of his team to secure the area before the cargo ship was emptied of its holdings. Three hours of surveying and multiple sweeps of a half-mile radius produced no immediate cause for concern. The armored vehicles were the first to be unloaded by the cargo ship’s massive crane. As the Strykers and tanks took position, several dozen blast wall segments were soon lowered to the dock. The segments were transported to one of the old barracks and positioned in a defensible ring around it. The military had handed over ownership of the naval station to the local government, but most of its buildings still stood.
Though Paul and his team had conducted numerous rescue missions, this was the first time a permanent shelter had been required. Fortifying the barracks with blast walls and gun towers was a painfully slow process and he could see the wariness in their eyes as his team worked through the day. Any Tils in the area would certainly take notice of the noise and activity. By nightfall, much of the work had been completed, though it was not until noon the next day that all was in place.
Since the base had been decommissioned, most of the furniture had been removed, though Paul and Lisa had scavenged a desk and chairs from the lower levels and placed them in what would serve for his office. Maps now covered the previously bare walls. Several were from the ships now serving the Council, however the majority had come from Cuba itself. America’s old communist enemy had had a surprising trove of very detailed charts of the American coast.
Paul had studied the maps endlessly in the weeks leading up to the journey. Various routes were marked and highlighted showing the projected course the team would take through the Gulf states to end in Panama City. Though nine months had been allotted, the pace he would set needed to be brisk in order to properly search the many cities on the list. The first days at Ingleside would be spent patrolling the area around the base, before venturing north to San Antonio. From there they would move on to Austin, Houston, then Galveston where the Mohawk would be waiting to collect any survivors found. Well over five hundred miles would be covered during the first three-month leg of the mission as they explored major cities and the smaller communities in between.
Paul knew when survivors were found, the speed of the military convoy would be drastically impeded as only fifty or so would be able to ride, forcing others to alternate walking. He had tried to convince the Council that more frequent deposits to the Mohawk were required instead of the three month intervals, but the Council argued against the idea on logistical grounds. Their solution was to transport any overload of survivors to Ingleside, where the ship would stay docked until it ventured out for the scheduled rendezvous with the convoy. Additionally, the convoy would be replenished with food and water, as well as ammunition should the need arise. As it was, the vehicles carried adequate nourishment for several hundred until each resupply.
Tracing his finger along the route on the largest map, Paul acknowledged a sense of excitement as he envisioned the mission. He was cognizant of the dangers that lay ahead, but the chance to rescue others filled him with a sense of completion, a sense of purpose. He had urged Mike forward with thoughts of the future when the camp leader had doubted the Cuban message. Yet now, Paul had returned to the past, and the struggles it held, with barely contained eagerness.
Turning to the glass-less window that opened up to the calm bay, he wondered why he had not been able to build a future as the others had. Andrew and Michelle were starting a life together, employed in jobs that assured safety. Abby Jarvis was raising her child in this new world. Even Mike, trapped as he was in his own trauma, had forsaken the past and struggled with a new life. As his thoughts drifted, Lisa stepped behind him and linked her hand with his. For a moment, Paul felt lost as his future and his past surrounded him.
Chapter Eight
Sitting on the soft couch, knees drawn tight and arms closed around them, Michelle’s eyes stared blankly into the darkness. Andrew was fast asleep in the bedroom upstairs, his gentle snoring the only sound in the night’s stillness. It was the third consecutive night that she had slipped out of bed to tip-toe down the stairs and resume her vigil of thought. The ominous painting and the half-remembered whispers overheard in the library had seeped into her subconscious, ever present now in all her thoughts. Even when her mind should have been occupied with work, she tried to riddle out the mystery of their importance. She had given up questioning why the events made her worried with an uneasy sickness. Accepting the situation as a negative allowed her to focus on what exactly the situation was.
They said something about the Ira Project, she began the process again. Then the other person said it was operational? No, that came later… after the civilian mistake? Or was that before I saw the silver thing? Grinding her teeth in frustration, Michelle wished her memory of the conversation was not so clouded by the haze of recent sleep. She could recall brief parts of what the two figures discussed in the shadows, but the order and greater portion of the conversation seemed just beyond the grasp of her mind.
For the first two nights since the meeting with the Councilor, Michelle had tossed with agitation as she tried to replay the night in the library. Her constant shifting had not gone unnoticed by Andrew, thus why she began waiting until he fell asleep before heading down to the living room. Five nights had passed, and during none of them had she even thought about spending extra time in the office. Her once solace-granting library now seemed dangerous. So it was for the remainder of the work week that she joined her colleagues in their five o’clock departures.
The change in her routine had taken Andrew quite by surprise, but he welcomed the extra time the two could spend together. Michelle had not told him of her meeting, nor of the icy worry that had flooded through her because of a word on a painting. He would either have tried to talk her out of her unfounded anxiety, or else he would have believed her thoroughly and rushed headlong into whatever danger threatened. She liked neither option, so for the time being she had decided to hold her concerns tightly.
That she was more irritable than usual, however, was a challenge to hide. It was the cycle of frustration that had her snapping and sullen. The harder she tried to recall the conversation, the less she could remember which undoubtedly led to the frustration, which then blocked even more of her memory. Over the past five days, in the brief moments when her thoughts were not trained on the conversation, snippets popped into her head. She had even tried to think about not thinking about the conversation, but all that resulted in was a quizzical look from Andrew after she had slapped a plate upon the table with shattering force.
Michelle had been pleased and grateful when the weekend had finally arrived. For the first time since starting, her job no longer filled the vacant hours of the day with work for which she hungered. Instead, her mind had been a tangle for the remainder of the week. She had often drifted off in conversations, or daydreamed for long stretches at her desk. Wil Armenio had taken notice and pulled her aside after a meeting on Thursday, inquiring if she was feeling all right. Fumbling through the lie of feeling a cold coming on, she nodded as Wil ran through a litany of home remedies that he swore worked like a miracle. Michelle thought that simply stomaching the large amounts of whiskey in each remedy would be miracle enough to raise the dead. At least her feigned illness seemed to ease his concern and also served as an explanation of her new willingness to leave the office at a reasonable hour.
Though she and Andrew had spent the day engaged in their typical Saturday ritual, she found herself only partly present as her mind struggled to untangle the knot of thoughts that teased her endlessly. They had wandered so far down a path that she did not even hear Andrew speak as they made their way home that afternoon.
“Michelle? Hey, you in there?” Andrew asked with a smile as he squeezed the hand entwined with his ow
n.
“Wha… oh, sorry, I just… What were you saying?”
“I was saying that I asked Erik about that project you were talking about last week. The Ira Project,” he replied.
Barely keeping herself from falling as her legs gave way just as her feet tripped over themselves, she grabbed Andrew’s arm for support. The effect of hearing him mention the very subject of her thoughts was beyond jarring. Michelle tried to smooth the shock from her face before attempting to speak.
“Oh? Really? What did he say?” she said with the hope that her tone seemed casual and unreflective of her truly intense interest.
“Well, he didn’t know anything at first, but I guess he did some asking around. He told me yesterday that he heard it’s a military project on the East Side, which is what I said it would be, by the way.” His triumphant smile was almost enough for Michelle to laugh, and she would have if her mind had not immediately begun racing to process the information.
Now, as she sat on the living room couch turning her mind over the fragmented memories of a hushed conversation and the military connection that linked both the Councilor and the East Side, Michelle realized with a sense of defeated acceptance what she intended to do next.
I’m going to the East Side, her thoughts confirmed. Gitmo… Guantanamo Bay.
--
Three hours into the drive, Michelle pushed the 1960s Ford Falcon well past the eighty mile per hour mark on the speedometer. Even continuing at her current speed, she estimated at least another three hours remained before reaching her destination. Though she had never flown, out of both fear and poverty, she almost wished she was aboard one of the helicopters that ferried senior officials to any part of the island with far less time wasted.
