Show of Force

by A. J. Quinn

  “Tate.”

  Slowly she turned toward Jillian, who was still standing by the door. She took stock of her face, noted her eyes were red, her features stricken. Oh Jesus. The world slowed, her vision blurred, and she felt her heart start to break.

  “Please don’t,” she begged as a thousand emotions crashed over her. If she didn’t let Jillian say anything, she wouldn’t have to listen as someone told her what she already feared in her heart. She’s not dead. She can’t be.

  “Tate, I need you to listen to me. Early this morning, two Super Hornets were shot down near the Pakistan border.”

  “No—”

  “I’m so sorry, Tate. The navy has confirmed Evan was one of the pilots. The other was a lieutenant named Deacon Walker. I—I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else.”

  The words shook Tate hard, tearing a sob from her throat as her world came apart. “But they’re looking for them, aren’t they?”

  “Search-and-rescue teams were launched just after dawn,” Jillian said, “but the area they went down in is as bad as it gets. The navy confirmed an emergency beacon was initially picked up by satellite, but it went silent too quickly to be much help. And the closest eye witnesses on the ground reported no one saw either pilot eject.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.” Tate blinked away tears. She heard the fracture in her voice, felt the burn in her throat. “There’s still a chance. I mean it, Jillian. It’s not in Evan to give up. We shouldn’t give up, either.”

  Jillian looked at her, just looked, and remained silent.

  The thought that Evan was somewhere in Afghanistan…hurt…dying…or dead…“No. Please, God—”

  The strength gave out in her legs and her knees hit the floor.

  *

  Evan and Deacon Walker were listed as missing in action—they were only presumed dead. And for Tate, the days that followed became nothing more than a jumble of vague images and dreams. Voices and movements. Impressions of people.

  For the first time in years, Tate found herself praying to a God she hadn’t quite believed in since she began covering wars. She prayed for a miracle more times than she cared to admit. But no matter what promises she made or what sacrifice she offered, no miracle was forthcoming.

  Miracles didn’t exist. Reality did.

  Several days after the media reported two navy jets had been shot down during a night mission in Afghanistan, a video appeared on the Internet. Alleged to have been released by a group claiming responsibility, the black-and-white video was a propaganda coup for the insurgents as it immediately went viral.

  It also removed any doubt that might have lingered about the fate of the two missing pilots.

  Tate had no desire to watch the video. But it garnered such intense coverage from every major news outlet there was no escaping its near-constant airplay. And each time she saw the video, or heard another talking head expressing an opinion, Tate was conscious only of a tearing sense of loss as she tried to keep from being crushed by the weight of her own emotions.

  The horrific images opened with the silent approach of the two Super Hornets. They had been conducting what the military described as a show of force. It was a tactic that had been used countless times, an action meant to intimidate—a display of readily available strength.

  But clearly, on this particular night, the insurgents had been waiting.

  The moments that followed illustrated the sequence of events with startling clarity. Two surface-to-air missiles were shoulder-launched seconds apart, using what the experts called MANPADS—a man-portable air-defense system—which could be had for as little as a few hundred dollars on the black market.

  All Tate would remember for days afterward was seeing the shower of flames as the first missile struck the lead aircraft—Evan’s jet—with lethal accuracy. A few seconds passed and then the fighter exploded in a blast that filled the screen, lighting up the black night.

  What the experts couldn’t determine was whether it was the wing from Evan’s aircraft, as it sheared off, or the second missile that brought down Walker’s jet. What the hell difference did it make, Tate wanted to scream as she struggled against the mounting evidence Evan had died in that fireball.

  Because the search-and-rescue missions found no evidence either pilot survived. And the SEAL team which eventually managed to survey the crash site found only burnt wreckage consistent with the two missing aircraft, strewn over an inhospitable mountainous region.

  Sometime during the second week of March, the navy officially called off any further recovery missions, and Evan and Walker’s status was changed to KIA/BNR: killed in action/body not recovered.

  And on a cold and gray Washington afternoon, the flag-draped casket beside the open grave sat empty.

  After the funeral, Alex gave Tate the flag presented to him at the conclusion of the service. Meticulously folded thirteen times into the symbolic tri-cornered shape with no red or white stripe evident, leaving only the blue field with stars.

  On behalf of the President of the United States and the Chief of Naval Operations, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s service to this country and a grateful US Navy.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered to him. “I don’t know how to go on without her. I loved her but I never told her. Now I don’t know how to say good-bye. I don’t think I can.”

  She could see pain evident in Alex’s eyes and grief etched on his face. But he had no advice to offer. No answers. What he had was a letter Evan had left in his care, written just before leaving Chamonix to begin her final deployment.

  It was her just-in-case letter. A letter Tate never intended to read. And then, having read it, she reread it so many times the edges became curled and it was in danger of falling apart.

  My beautiful Tate—

  Believe me when I say I’m sorry. I know I promised you I’d stay safe. But if you’re reading this, it means I broke my word to you. Please forgive me and understand it was a promise I never meant to break. At the time I wrote this letter, I never truly believed I would give you cause to read it.

  I know you’re hurting. But if it helps, I always hoped to eventually meet my end without regret. And though it was much shorter than I’d hoped, it turns out there’s not a lot I would have changed about my life.

  I regret I never made things right with Althea. We got a good start on putting the hurt and anger behind us those few days we were together in Chamonix, and it was always my intention to fix the rest once I got home. But now it looks like I won’t be getting the opportunity. When you see her, please make sure she and my father know I loved them both very, very much.

  My second regret is not getting a chance to say good-bye to Alex. He was and always will be the other half of me, so there’s no need to tell him I love him. He knows. Just as he knows how much I love to fly. But you may need to remind him that flying an F/A-18 was a thrill I wouldn’t have experienced if I hadn’t joined the navy. Don’t let him grieve for too long. And get Nick to help if Alex gives you a hard time.

  As for you, beautiful lady, I only regret you and I never got the chance to discover how far we could take what’s been happening between us since the moment we met. You made me so very happy for what we’ve had and hopeful for what was still to come. More than anything, I wanted to see things through with you. I just know it would have been amazing.

  Be well, Tate. And when you think of me, know that all of my life was good. But the best part of my life was you.

  Evan

  Tate closed her eyes, unable to stop the searing pain that tore through her. Because it was then it finally hit her. Evan was truly gone. She might have screamed—she wasn’t sure—as she buried her face in her hands and wept.

  Chapter Eight

  Puget Sound, Washington

  As the days flowed following Evan’s funeral, Tate found she was unable to fill the void in her life. She was certain the world went on aro
und her just as it had before. But the longing to be with Evan again—just one more time—never left.

  Finding it too painful to go back to the life she’d known in Bahrain, she chose to remain stateside. Well-meaning friends tried to assure her the passage of time would lessen her pain and cautioned against making rash, life-altering decisions. But Tate knew this particular decision had been a long time coming.

  Since Kandahar.

  For the sake of those closest to her—especially her parents—she tried. Mostly she avoided people. And when she couldn’t avoid, she put on a brave front.

  Alex understood. And although he was struggling with his own grief, it was Alex and his partner Nick who finally saved her. Three weeks after the funeral, as dawn was breaking over the city, she awoke to find Alex at the door of her DC hotel room.

  “How’d you find me?”

  Alex shrugged. “You’re registered under your own name, and I’m persistent. Jesus, look at you—you’re skinny and pale. Why are you hiding, Tate?”

  “I don’t know what else to do.” Her throat tightened and bittersweet tears choked her voice. “I’m sorry. I’m not really good company. It’s just that sometimes I swear—”

  “You swear what?”

  “Sometimes I swear I’ve seen Evan.” Tate felt foolish. “In a passing car. Or on the street…or in a crowd.”

  Alex didn’t say anything. He just watched her with smoky gray eyes so like his sister’s and appeared to understand.

  “I start to call out. But she’s never there, of course.”

  Alex closed his eyes. “I miss her too. Most days I feel like I’ve lost part of myself, like half my soul is missing, and yet I don’t feel like she’s really gone. Does that even make sense?”

  “Come home with us, Tate,” Alex said, “with me and Nick. I think Evan would have liked it, and maybe between the three of us, we can figure it out.”

  She’d stayed with Alex and Nick until she felt strong enough to be on her own. And until Alex felt strong enough to let her go. They then helped her find a place of her own, barely a mile away as it turned out. A beautiful house with soul-soothing views of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains.

  Work helped. She began writing again, mostly articles providing insights into American foreign policy. She was also writing the book she’d been working on forever. Now seemed as good a time as any to see if she could finish it. But at the end of each day and long into each night, there was no escaping reality. She knew she had to find a way to move on. But she would have to stop thinking about Evan first, and to do that, she would have to stop breathing.

  Releasing a soft sigh, Tate pushed away from her laptop, deciding to call it a day. She poured a glass of wine and on her way through to the deck for what had become a daily ritual, she paused to turn up the volume on the music softly playing in the background.

  As the sultry Latin rhythms of the Buena Vista Social Club came through the speakers, she felt her throat tighten. The music evoked a memory of a long forgotten afternoon and Evan trying to teach her some intricate dance steps in her tiny flat in Bahrain.

  God, Evan, I miss you.

  As the day waned, Tate sat on the end of the deck, legs hanging over the edge looking out at the water while, overhead, the gulls wheeled and cried.

  The scent of rain hung in the air, but she didn’t mind. She was enjoying both the wine and the tranquility of the late afternoon when the stillness was disturbed by the recognizable beat of a helicopter. She watched as the aircraft drew near, hovered momentarily, and then much to her annoyance, it set down in the vacant field across the road from her home.

  Son of a bitch, that’s private property. My private property.

  She got up and started to walk over, intent on giving the errant pilot a piece of her mind when she froze. Stared in disbelief as Althea Kane stepped down, ducking under the still rotating blades before straightening and walking toward her.

  “Tate, I hope you don’t mind my dropping by unannounced, but I need a private word with you. I thought this might be the simplest way, rather than dragging you to DC.”

  Tate nodded and tried to control the conflicting surge of surprise and concern. Without another word, she led the way to her house, her nerves brittle enough to snap.

  *

  “It’s Evan. She’s alive.”

  The instant the words were spoken, Tate’s world shifted on its axis. She forgot how to breathe. Hope bloomed, tentative, in the remains of her shattered heart. And if Althea said anything else in the moments that followed, her words failed to register.

  If it had been anyone else, Tate would have said this was a cruel hoax. But this wasn’t just anybody speaking to her, and she couldn’t contain the flicker of hope that once again coursed through her body and awakened her soul.

  This was Althea Kane. The secretary of state. Evan’s mother.

  And Tate desperately wanted to believe her.

  She crossed her arms and finally looked at Althea. Was it possible? What was she supposed to say? How was she supposed to respond?

  Althea appeared not to notice her dilemma. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a disc, which she swiftly thrust into Tate’s hands. “Six days ago, a video was delivered to a CIA outpost near Kandahar,” she said in a curiously flat voice. “It came through a regular contact.”

  “And—?”

  “An insurgent cell has proposed a prisoner exchange. They’ve identified eight detainees awaiting transfer to an American facility. They want them released and, in return, have offered to return two US pilots.”

  Tate licked her lips and cleared her throat, but couldn’t find a way to ask.

  Thankfully, Althea did not seem to require the question. “There are only two missing American pilots,” she said softly. “Evan and her wingman, Lieutenant Deacon Walker.”

  Tate pressed her lips together as her fingers tightened around the disc. “What’s on the disc?”

  “Proof of life.”

  Tate walked toward her laptop, still open on the table by the scattered files where she’d been working earlier. Althea wouldn’t be here if the information hadn’t been vetted through unimpeachable channels. She wouldn’t be sharing the disc if she didn’t somehow believe it provided absolute proof her daughter was still alive.

  “Tate?”

  She turned at the sound of Althea’s voice, hearing her despite the constant waves of grief and hope breaking over her as her head spun in wonder. Althea had handed her a reprieve. A second chance. Already, she could feel her world begin to right itself.

  Because if Evan was alive, she would move heaven and earth to bring her home. And then she was never letting her go.

  Tate slipped the disc into the drive, entered a couple of quick keystrokes, and stepped back. She crossed her arms, fingers gripping her elbows as if to hold herself together. And with her jaw tightly clenched, she watched the screen flicker to life.

  The image was grainy, the lighting dim. As her eyes adjusted to the jerking motion of obviously handheld equipment, the camera zoomed in, focusing first on a young man—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties—with shaggy dark blond hair and old haunted eyes. He was wearing a flight suit and was seated stiffly in a wooden chair, his arms tightly bound in front of him. Was this Deacon Walker?

  The camera paused, lingered, and then panned slowly to the right.

  A woman sat slumped in a wooden chair, her chin resting on her chest. Dark hair shrouded her face, rendering it all but invisible.

  It could be Evan. At least it was a possibility Tate couldn’t disregard, even though she still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. But then again, the grainy image scrolling across the screen could be that of any dark-haired woman.

  The image shook as a hand came into view, grasping the woman’s head by the hair and pulling it upright, revealing her face. The camera zoomed in and Tate couldn’t control the rush of anger. Rage. Helpless fury.

  Evan.

  Her name
reverberated in her mind. Not a figment of her imagination. Not a ghost from the past or a manifestation of her dreams. Bruised. Gaunt. Obviously ill, her eyes unfocused and glazed.

  But very much alive.

  Unable to look away from the image on the monitor, Tate could see the cuts and bruises marring her beautiful face. Her eyes fixed on one particularly ugly bruise before finally noting the newspaper held in her tightly bound hands. She looked up at Althea, once again silently asking questions.

  “It’s the front page of the New York Times. It’s dated seven days ago.” Tate felt Althea sigh before she spoke again, her voice a whisper of pain and sorrow. “Did Evan ever tell you I once offered to meet with the Secretary of the Navy on her behalf? I told her I could get her out of her remaining service commitment. Do you know what she said?”

  Tate shook her head.

  “She told me I had always been myopically focused on my career to the exclusion of everything else, including my children, and she didn’t expect or need me to change and jeopardize anything on her behalf at this late stage in the game. She wasn’t a child—hadn’t been one for quite some time, in case it had escaped my notice—and she didn’t need me to protect her.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tate didn’t know what else to say.

  “Don’t be sorry, Evan was right. But that’s not what’s important now.” Althea’s expression seemed sad, almost wistful.

  “Tell me how I can help.”

  “I know I have no right to ask you to put yourself in danger. And yet that’s exactly what I’m here to do. I’d like you to go to Afghanistan. To be there during the exchange.”

  Tate was too shocked to do anything more than stand there and stare. Her throat tightened and her breath stalled in her chest. “The exchange will be a military operation. They won’t allow—”

  Althea smiled wearily. “Believe it or not, Tate, I do have influence. Your presence has already been approved and transport to Afghanistan has already been arranged. You just have to say yes.”