by Chris Hauty
“How do we know you’re who you say you are?” she asks Jones.
Jones stares quizzically at Hayley. “Elaborate, please.”
“Everyone associated with this group, one that we’ve agreed to join and serve as operatives, remains behind a veil of anonymity and pseudonyms. How do we know you aren’t actually the Russian moles and your target the true patriot?” The emphasis she places in the “you” of her question has the swing and heft of a cudgel.
Jones appears momentarily thrown by Hayley’s query. Neither he nor his two colleagues have cogent responses. How can they prove the true nature of their motivations? They speak quietly among themselves at the front of the room while a murmur rises from the attendees. April, seated at a desk next to her friend, leans over for a private word. “Are you fucking crazy? Say goodbye to your chances for first mission,” she surmises. With a crooked grin, she adds, “Thanks, I guess.”
Jones turns back toward the classroom, having finished conferring with his colleagues. “The agent candidate makes a good point, with the only question that needed to be asked. How can I, standing before you, be trusted? Am I who I say I am, and is what I’ve told you the complete truth? To that end, we request you continue your training. My colleagues and I will return at a date very soon and provide all the verification necessary to accept what I’ve presented here today as fact.”
With that said, Jones and his two colleagues depart the classroom with a clutch of the facility’s senior management. Within a couple of minutes, those still inside the classroom can hear the helicopter revving its engine and lifting off. Everyone files out of the building to continue with the day’s normal schedule. Hayley shrugs off April’s attempt to join her out the door, staying seated at her desk instead. Within moments, the West Virginian is alone in the classroom with only her thoughts as company. She wonders what exactly she is doing here in this desolate outpost thousands of miles from home. Every one of her peers had stayed in Lincoln County, had gotten pregnant, and had just started out raising families. But Hayley can easily locate the inflection point of her life, the moment when her world tilted and she slid in that direction with it.
Her father wasn’t much present in Hayley’s childhood before his death in Iraq. When not deployed with the Marine Corps Reserve, Tommy Chill worked as a long-haul trucker. He made up for those absences, both as father and husband, by excelling in both roles on those infrequent occasions when he was home. A wide, natural smile; always optimistic; quick-witted and well loved by family, friends, and acquaintances alike, Tommy Chill was a card. Even an eight-year-old Hayley could recognize her dad was an uncommonly handsome and charismatic man. The attacks on September 11, 2001, and subsequent Iraq and Afghanistan Wars made his absences even longer, called up for duty in 2003 and returning home to West Virginia only on the rarest of occasions.
Life as Hayley and her family knew it shattered into a thousand pieces on the night of November 7, 2004, when Tommy was killed at Blackwater Bridge during the offensive to recapture Fallujah. Hayley’s mother was told little about the circumstances of her husband’s death except that he died heroically, saving the lives of his fellow Marines, actions for which he would be posthumously awarded the Navy Cross. Like thousands of fallen warriors before him, Tommy’s body was returned to the US by way of the air force base in Dover, Delaware, and then delivered home by van to Lincoln County.
There was no question of his funeral service being anything but closed casket. Linda Chill had been told simply that it would be best for the family if her husband’s remains were kept from their view. Linda, hollowed up by grief and fear, agreed without complaint. The only member of the entire extended family having an issue with this decision was Hayley. Not quite yet nine years old, young Hayley fervently wanted to see her beloved father one more time before saying goodbye forever.
Late the night before the scheduled service and burial, just after midnight, Hayley sneaked out of her house and bicycled two miles through dark streets to the one funeral parlor in town. Breaking into the building wasn’t difficult, involving nothing more than shattering the glass of a rear window and climbing inside. Opening her father’s casket was only slightly more difficult, the massive wood lid having been screwed shut and sealed. Hayley located a screwdriver in the funeral parlor’s workroom and, with the aid of a step stool, proceeded to remove all thirty-two securing screws.
Hayley pushed the lid up and revealed the casket’s contents to the grim half-light of the storage room. Remains are exactly what she found, in the truest sense of the word. Handsome, charismatic, and always-smiling Tommy Chill had been shredded to nothing more than a grotesque array of bloody, raw body parts stowed in a half-dozen plastic collection bags. Bone, gristle, and torn flesh were the residue of the father Hayley loved and adored. Rather than grief, however, Hayley experienced an uncontrollable rage that invaded her body like alien spore and commanded her to destroy everything within eyesight. By the time the police arrived, much of the entire interior of the funeral parlor and its furnishings were a complete ruin. The only object that remained untouched in the child’s chaotic destruction of the funeral parlor were her father’s remains and his casket.
There was exhaustive talk of criminal charges and reform school. Given her age and the circumstances, however, Hayley was ordered by juvenile court to undertake extensive psychological therapy. The greatest punishment by far was being kept home from the funeral. Just as well, Hayley ultimately decided, as she came to view the vengeance she wrought upon the funeral parlor as the most fitting farewell to her dad. From that point onward, Hayley’s path deviated from that of her peers. That awful night taught her the value of violence as therapy. With maturation, she came to sculpt that ferocity into controlled action, more thoughtful and directed. Violence is life, she had decided. Directed violence is a directed life. Enlistment in the army, therefore, and all that lay beyond it was the only natural course for a natural-born hellion.
Hayley recalls that night with conflicting emotions. Losing her dad was the worst thing ever to happen to her. But viewed from another angle, the cathartic release ignited by her father’s death was the spark for everything that has gone right in her life since that time. As she stands up from the student desk in the prefab classroom of an unnamed training camp in Bakeoven, Oregon, she walks toward the door with a roaring conviction. If she is a loaded gun, she needs to know who will be pulling the trigger.
* * *
THE AGENT CANDIDATES hear the helicopter approach two days later as they’re prepping for a twenty-mile hike through the surrounding eastern Oregon outback. Facility staff enter the barracks and draw all the blinds and block the door as the chopper is heard landing in the quad. After a few minutes have passed, the ACs are instructed to continue with their preparations for the all-day march. One of the instructors approaches Hayley and tells her to put down her pack and follow him out of the barracks. April and the other four agent candidates stop what they’re doing and, with slack expressions, watch Hayley follow the instructor out the door. The West Virginian shoots a glance over her shoulder at April before closing the barracks door behind her.
“Motherfuckingfucker,” April mutters with a disappointed grimace. Each agent candidate understands the significance of Hayley being pulled from the group. Just like that, the contest between them has become one for second position.
Hayley follows the instructor across the quad, past the helicopter, and into the classroom. Entering, she stops in the threshold when she sees the two people seated in the first row of ridiculous student desks. The man, close to sixty-five years of age, had been president of the United States when Hayley was a teenager. Governing for two terms of impeccable leadership, unmarred by scandal, he had rescued the nation from devastating financial crisis and ushered in an era of unsurpassed prosperity. Even with his retirement from public life, the former president is a national figure of such upstanding moral rectitude and ethical vigor that nomination for sainthood doesn’t seem entire
ly far-fetched. The elderly woman sitting next to the former president is similarly recognizable, a retired Supreme Court justice who, while diminutive in physical size, possesses a gigantic legacy for landmark decisions affecting the lives of every single citizen in the nation. Her integrity is unimpeachable. Both smile easily as Hayley continues to remain frozen in the classroom doorway.
“Good morning, Hayley!” the chipper former president greets the West Virginian. “Mind closing the door behind you? My friend here was just complaining about the cold, in total contrast to the so-named Bakeoven.”
The retired Supreme Court justice casts a sidelong look at the former president. “Throw me under the bus, why don’t you?” She looks back toward Hayley. “Come in, dear, and have a seat. We promise not to bite.”
Hayley enters, the instructor who had led the way silently withdrawing from the classroom and shutting the door after him. The stunned West Virginian is alone with her dignified visitors.
“Kinda shocking, huh?” the former president guesses, good-naturedly.
Hayley nods her head. “Just a little, sir.”
“Well, that’s perfectly understandable. But spend a few minutes with us. You’ll come to see we’re regular folks, just like you.”
“I’m not sure anyone in this room can be categorized as regular folks, Mr. President,” the retired Supreme Court judge cracks.
The former president laughs. “Maybe so, maybe so.”
Hayley doesn’t let her guard down, not nearly relaxed as the two visitors. “If I can make an easy deduction, both of you are here to lend credence to what ‘Mr. Jones’ had alleged two days ago.”
“I suppose that is rather obvious, isn’t it?” the former president confirms. He continues, “Our only power is in our legacy and our commitment to the Constitution of the United States and its preservation. Publius is the organization that has formed around those ideals, and you and the other agent candidates are the manifestation of its commitment to action.”
Hayley says nothing, busy absorbing everything the former president has said.
“What my wordy politician friend is trying to say, dear girl, is we need your help because we’re too damned old to help ourselves.” The former president winces at the former Supreme Court justice’s all-too-accurate assessment of their viability, or lack of it.
“Are you thinking about taking this act out on the road, by any chance?” Hayley asks, warming to the relaxed dynamic in the room.
“We were thinking a YouTube channel might be the ticket,” the former president offers.
The former Supreme Court justice cuts to the issue at hand. “You must be curious as to the identity of the Russian mole in our government, Hayley.”
The somber nature of the moment prompts Hayley to merely nod her head in anticipation of being a privileged recipient of this secret.
“Your target is President Monroe,” the former Supreme Court justice tells her. “He is an agent of Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate, their CIA, born in Russia but raised in our country for the sole purpose of penetrating its most sensitive institutions.”
As that bombshell reverberates in Hayley’s brain, the former president provides more details. “A trusted covert agent placed deeply within the Russian intelligence agency and handled by one of our associates during her career with the CIA passed along top secret information regarding Monroe’s true origin soon after his election to president. My understanding is the GRU man was paid a million dollars for that information, since corroborated by several additional trusted sources.”
The former Supreme Court justice asks, “Are you quite satisfied with the integrity of our motivations, Hayley? The situation is dire. We’ll leave it to one of our operations colleagues to explain the broad and finer points of your mission.”
Hayley reacts, surprised but not surprised. “I am the selected agent candidate?”
“You are,” the former president assures her. “There has been little question of you being our choice since the first day you arrived.”
“I am honored, sir.” Hayley’s modesty is genuine.
“I suggest we are the ones who are honored by your selfless sacrifice, Hayley,” the former jurist informs her.
“What I don’t understand is, why not just let the proper agencies handle this?”
“The proper agencies cannot be trusted to act within the confines of our beloved Constitution, my dear. In fact, at this very minute, certain figures in those agencies are preparing a possible assassination of the president.” Hayley reacts to this revelation, unable to mask her shock.
“You see, Hayley, in some ways, a lot of the folks back in Washington can be expected to act with only marginally less self-interest than our foreign adversaries,” the former president suggests.
“Also, clever members of our strategic planning committee foresee better uses for Mr. Monroe than with a bullet in the back of his head or in jail,” the former Supreme Court justice elaborates. “An illegitimate president can be a weapon turned back on those who deployed him against us.”
Hayley says nothing, processing all that her distinguished visitors have told her. The former president stands up, with difficulty, from the confining student’s desk. “Can’t believe we make young people sit in these torture devices.”
The former Supreme Court justice gets up with much less trouble. “You should try planking, Mr. President. Changed my life.”
The former president guffaws. “That’ll be the day. Next thing you know, my wife will be after me to take up hot yoga.” Both of them move toward the door while Hayley stands respectfully motionless with averted gaze. “C’mon, Hayley. We may be retired, but you’ve got places to be.”
She has no idea what he’s talking about. “Sir?”
“You’re coming with me and Madam Justice. The chopper will take us to a private airstrip and a plane for back east.”
Hayley still hasn’t quite caught up. The former Supreme Court justice beckons with a sympathetic gesture. “All of your things have already been stowed on board, dear. It’s time.”
But even with these icons, destined for the history books, Hayley isn’t blindly obedient. She stays rooted in place. “The other agent candidates won’t ever have the confirmation they need if we leave before they’ve returned.” The two older people seem temporarily flummoxed by Hayley’s intransigence. Hayley adds, “With all due respect, Mr. President, Madam Justice, they deserve to be told whose side they’re fighting for.”
The former president gestures toward a surveillance camera in one corner of the room’s ceiling. “You just told ’em, Hayley. The last few minutes of our meeting here will be played back for their edification.”
She looks toward the camera, embarrassed, only now remembering that all of their classes were video recorded. Sheepishly, Hayley follows her two distinguished visitors out the door and across the quad to the waiting helicopter. She falls into step beside the tall, rail-thin former president hunching his shoulders against the cold wind blowing down from Canada. “They tell me you’ll be continuing your training in Virginia. The plan apparently is to insert you directly into the West Wing,” he informs Hayley with the appropriate amount of seriousness.
“The West Wing? What’s my mission?” The enormity of her task is just beginning to become clear to her.
“Oh, you just need to protect the man from assassination and then convince him to work for us.” The former president gives her a wink. “Piece of cake, right?”
Hayley doesn’t say anything in response but pauses before following the other two into the helicopter, looking down at her feet and seeing a jagged rock just to the side of her right foot. Reaching down to take hold of the stone, she stands again and takes in the camp she has rarely left in the last several months. Each way station since leaving home, whether in the military or since her discharge, has transformed her, an evolution that feels far from complete but profound nonetheless. It occurs to Hayley as she steps foot onboard the helicopte
r and sits in the jump seat between a former president and a former Supreme Court justice that she has learned all she possibly could in this windblown, desolate place.
The engine coughs to a start and whines as rotors begin to lazily turn, then faster and faster, clouds of dust swirling outside the windows, and then they’re aloft. Crew members help the more distinguished passengers don headphones, but Hayley rebuffs the offer. She prefers turning off her mind in the roar and whoosh of the chopper. The aircraft rotates, bearing west and to an ill-defined future. Is she anxious? Not much. She has prepared herself, trained and conditioned every part of her mind and body for the challenge to come. Everything is possible. The Bear is at the nation’s throat. He is a vicious and brutal beast that will rip the country apart, left unchallenged and unchecked. Without a doubt, the brute has bloodied its prey, and the end may seem near. But Hayley remains steadfast and fearless, thinking to herself, They just think they’re winning.
* * *
SITTING IN THE roaring helicopter for a short, forty-five-minute ride to a private airstrip outside Portland, Oregon, the former president muses on the strange place in which he finds himself and, by extension, the nation, too. He blames himself for not seeing the threat until it was too late. Perhaps he could let himself off the hook by blaming the intelligence he was provided in the closing days of his administration, but such a rationalization mitigates his regret not one bit. This business he and the others have undertaken on behalf of the nation is the only recourse. He prefers action to self-recrimination, which achieves exactly nothing.
He glances to his left and briefly takes in the young woman sitting next to him. So much will be riding on her untested shoulders. Perhaps they are asking too much of her. More clever minds than his have determined that the current plan, while far from foolproof, remains the best option for reversing the terrible gains made by America’s enemies. It is harrowing to think that a twenty-four-year-old West Virginia woman without a college degree will determine the fate of the nation.
