Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  "Afghanistan. 1997," Benjamin continues.

  "Yes."

  I keep my calm. Leaning back in my chair and holding a placid look on my face. Not mockingly joyful yet not looking overly concerned or worried. Jason was trying to read my face. This must be driving him mad.

  "What can you tell us about that mission? Anything at all."

  "Of course. May I have some water, please?"

  Phil places a refilled goblet in front of me.

  "Thank you." I take a sip. "Dread was my gunnery. He was in charge of all of our ammunition and guns. Rolly was the technical specialist. Picker was our sniper. Fletcher the best navigator I ever had. Doc was the medic. This was his first mission. And Officer Promise, my first officer and key strategist. I was their captain. They were Secret Operation Soldiers. But we — we were family. We did deep cover within the forces.

  “That night in Afghanistan, we were ambushed half way to our destination. I was wounded. When I regained consciousness, we had been captured. Officer Promise and I were in the same cell. I was told the others... were killed."

  They paused respectfully and I truly appreciated that. I have never spoken of that night since my return when I was debriefed.

  "Do you know why they were killed, so quickly?"

  "I was unconscious. If I had to guess, these weren't the kind of guys to go down without a hell of a fight. No soldier over there wants to be taken alive. They all know what that could mean."

  "Please explain for the sake of the record."

  "Torture. Public execution."

  "Why didn't they kill Officer Promise?"

  "Prom was different."

  Agent Jones lifts his pen, pausing from writing his notes and interjects. His tone is curt and somehow it makes the memory fall into a cold reality and the other gentlemen sit back in their chairs and silently watch as if not wanting to get hit by any stray questions themselves.

  "Different how?"

  I have to answer his question with logic.

  "He was a strategist. Again, I was unconscious but if I had to guess, he probably convinced them there was a reason to keep him alive."

  "From what I hear about how they handle captured American Soldiers, that's quite a negotiation skill. Why didn't they keep you? Why didn't they kill you? A captain is a prize."

  Jason's question is as cold as his stare. I can't get drawn into responding defensively which is exactly what he wants.

  "My guess is they didn't know I was a captain. You know, on mission, we don't wear distinguishable titles."

  He's not convinced. I can see it in his eyes.

  "What was the purpose of the mission?"

  "That's classified."

  "Who were you going to meet?"

  "Classified."

  "Did this mission have anything to do with the Project?"

  "To answer that would require classified information."

  A loud gust of what sounds like hail splatters against the window. The storm is whipping itself up outside and the questioning is whipping in here.

  "Your answers are not answers, Wilkes. You can't hide behind the redundancy of 'that's classified'. If it were a valid answer, we wouldn't be here right now. There are true real non-speculative reasons as to why yourself and Officer Joshua Promise were the only two men that got out of that confrontation alive and I want to know why."

  My hip is starting to throb. The storm outside seems to coincide with its increase in pain.

  "Mr. Secretary, do you need a break?" asks Phil.

  "I think we are on a good roll here, Phil, if I may," Jason interjects. "Let's get back on track. Okay. So, everyone's dead, yourself and Officer Promise are alive, how did you get out? What negotiations transpired? They just don't let people walk out of Afghanistan prisons without a purpose or promise. What did you promise them, Mr. Wilkes?"

  "Your tone is questionable, Agent. I don't know. I lost consciousness several times and was heavily sedated with pain killers. For me to speculate in that condition, something that will be on an official record, would be negligent of me. Do you want me to say something I'm not sure of to satisfy your itch? The only thing I remember is waking up on a military chopper on my back with a shattered hip and the bullet still lodged in my pelvis."

  He is not the type of agent to show his frustration but if I had to guess, his toes are wiggling a hole in his socks right now.

  "Surely you and Officer Promise spoke afterward. He would have filled you in on the events you missed. You said he was a good First Officer, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then, wouldn't a good first Officer update his captain who was his, and I quote "family", after the event?"

  "I don't recall that. I do recall both of us being grateful to be Stateside. Family, that we were, son. We didn't think very much about ourselves at that time. We were busy. We went to all five funerals. I couldn't sit so I had them push me on a stretcher from an ambulance."

  I can't help but hold the hilt of my cane tightly. That day came back to my mind when the words left my mouth. I feel my chin begin to tremble and all eyes are on Agent Jones opening the next file.

  "You led your men into an ambush."

  I feel anger rising within me. Any captain would behind that statement and Agent Jones knows it. Behind those glasses, his eyes are searching for a reaction that I can't give him. However, if I show no reaction, I'm guilty of leading them into an ambush because it will be assumed that I didn't truly care about them.

  "As insulting as your comment was, I appreciate you trying to do your job. However, there is no captain that feels about their men the way I felt about mine, that would lead them into an ambush. Please consider the fact that I went into it with them, and though I came out, it was not without penalty."

  I raise my cane for them all to see. Jason is biting his jaw. Now he's going to try to clean it up.

  "I'm just trying to understand what happened in the desert. Officer Promise’s statement of accounts upon his return is redacted down to a stack of buts and the's. No guilt for that day?"

  I lower the cane to the floor and squeeze the hilt. The arrogance of Jason is appalling, yet his dedication to his purpose refreshing. I think if he really knew my purpose he might be one that would be on board.

  "I live with regret. Because there is not a day I do not wish I didn't take that mission. But guilt is for someone who did something wrong. I followed orders. I did what I was supposed to do, Agent."

  I'm surprised. Jason Jones takes his glasses off, rubs the bridge of his nose at length and lets Phil lead the next round of questioning. Phil didn't fail me.

  "Tea?" Phil asks me nervously.

  "Mint, please."

  I stretch the blood back into my legs and Phil places the steaming cup beside me. I can feel Director White holding her breath behind that mirror as Jason puts his glasses back on and roughly snatches out a file from the bottom of the pile. He clears his throat. I can't resist asking him.

  "Mint tea, Agent Jones?"

  He ignores my question and proceeds to speak.

  "The BST-10 Project was the brainchild of your successor, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "A successor and mentor."

  "Yes."

  "So, this project means a great deal to you."

  "Meant. It no longer exists."

  "Right. Let us go back a bit. Initially, you were tasked, by your predecessor as you put it, with security for the entire facility, no? A man who is thorough, cares about his men, cares about this project, but it all burns down. 'Your' men, as you put it, your Officer Joshua Promise, just got back from a four-month tour. You put him in charge, didn't you?"

  "Yes. Officer Joshua Promise was in charge."

  "How did that happen... on your watch? Why didn't you put fresh men on this twenty seven-million dollar project? Officer Promise had a wife, a son, and a house with two mortgages on it. You knew all of this, yet you choose him to bear such a burden."

  I grip the hilt of my cane
.

  "Agent Jones, do you know how hard it is for active duty servicemen to find work between tours? I'm sorry, I forgot, you wouldn't. Well it's hard. Very hard. My men had families. People depending on them to bring home a paycheck. They had the clearance level and showed up on time, every time. The fire investigation proved inconclusive-"

  "-because of all the flammable material used, yes. So, what actually happened?"

  "I wasn't there. I don't know."

  "I do."

  The already lowered chins lean in my direction.

  "Twenty-seven million dollars of research, logs, and all back up material went up in an explosion in the middle of a forest in Brazil."

  I relax my grip on the cane.

  "That sounds right."

  "Let's back up. You inherited this project from the former Secretary of Defence. It was an on-going project you only had to get re-funded for. That's over ten years of research and nothing to show for it. Why did he pick you?"

  "How can I possibly answer that?"

  "There is a record of the former Secretary of Defence having given you eighty-seven thousand dollars. What was that money for?"

  I didn't want to, but I felt my eyes lower and found myself staring at the base of my water goblet.

  "If you're having difficulty recalling, it went into your personal bank account. Why would a Secretary of Defence give a man eighty-seven thousand dollars?"

  "Because he was a good man."

  "A good man buying silence?"

  Something fell in the room behind the mirror. Director White didn't do her job.

  "I was in the desert. Just got my new platoon. I watched most of my last one blown to pieces by road mines. One died in my arms. It was then she found out, my wife...” I swallowed hard. “It was too far gone but we had to try. I had to watch her through a computer screen. I could not put my arms around her. Radiation and chemotherapy was expensive and comes with no promises. But we hoped it would give her more time. She died in my arms, vomiting a quarter of her body's blood."

  I stared directly at him. I purposely looked deep into his eyes. I wanted this to get under his skin. The wind outside pelts at the window and Phil can't stop clearing his throat. It didn't seem to phase Agent Jones. He continues coming at me.

  "So the money was for medical bills."

  He ignores me completely, holding the floor.

  "I went back to work. What else would a man do? I lost my house. My car. But we fought. She was the toughest soldier I ever met. You are not going to find what you are looking for."

  "Just what is that?"

  "Dirt. This isn't a dirty story."

  "Tell me about the Beaston Project."

  It's time to sway the pressure onto his shoulders.

  "All those files and you don't know?"

  "These files have the logistics. They state it was a project 'Intended to produce weapons for the United States of America.'"

  "Exactly. So how is it different from any other of the thousands of weapon projects we have worked on?"

  "Mr. Wilkes, the others have something to show for ten years of work other than a burned-out bunker. Fast forward, you become Secretary of Defence. You've got over a decade of active duty service to your credit, and you inherit the project. You're vested. You know it inside and out. You were angry. You were angry when the President said the money would not be refunded, weren't you?"

  I can actually hear Director White yelling at him through his ear piece. He ignores it completely. Agent Jones taps his pen on the table three times. An old signal, meaning increase the heat on the thermostat by three degrees. It is intended to keep the 'heat' on me and increase my discomfort. I won't tell him that my age the additional heat is welcomed. He taps his pen again. I'll answer his question after this sip of water.

  "No. The President had his reasons. Budget cuts, election coming up."

  "So, you are saying that politics killed your project. Cancer killed your wife. You're angry about that, Mr. Wilkes, understandably. Aren't you?"

  Phil had to intervene. "Jason... Agent Jones, I think we need a break here. It's been two hours."

  "I think he should answer the question."

  There he goes. Three taps. Something hard hits the window of the room.

  "BREAK!" I hear Director White yell into his ear piece. He pulls the ear piece out of his ear and slams it on the desk beneath his cupped palm.

  "Mr. John Wilkes, why did the President of the United States kill this Project?”

  "I have tolerated your insolence long enough! Address me as Mr. Secretary."

  Jason turns over a piece of paper and shoves it across the table at me. It stops at the base of my water goblet.

  "The President found and I quote 'Unethical Practices inconsistent with U.S. values.'

  Four taps. Everyone but me adjusts their tie.

  "What unethical practices did he mean?"

  "You've just crossed from question to accusation, son. An accusation I take very seriously."

  "Every project turns in intermittent reports. Where are yours? I've been through every file." He slams his open palm on the top of the pile of files and continues. "Nothing. What does appear with the BST-10 Project is so heavily redacted there's nothing of substance left. Why is that?"

  I expected Phil, and here he comes.

  "Jason, redactions are done by the DOD-"

  "That he is head of. Why?"

  Agent Jones doesn't loosen the grip of his stare. Benjamin is still. A statue in the corner. There, observing. He is more intimidating than Agent Jones. With Agent Jones, I see the gun and the bullet. With Benjamin, you see nothing. The danger of what he may be deducing is far more threatening.

  "Why are you looking at Phil? I asked the question."

  "You're about to ask your last question."

  I can feel my knuckles turn white from squeezing the hilt of my cane.

  "Is that a threat?"

  "I haven't decided which you have managed to insult more, my integrity or my loyalty."

  "You're the one with the answers. Everyone — everyone who had a hand, foot or part in the BST-10 Project is dead. Everyone except you. Why is that?"

  Director White is speaking in his ear. He looks directly into the mirror and answers her. "After he answers the question!"

  "Listen to your Director, Agent Jason Jones. If you want to have a job when you rise from this table."

  He looks like a bloodhound who has picked up a scent and can't get it out of his nostrils. Agent Jones did what any man with a car payment and mortgage would do. He reluctantly pushes his seat out and goes into the room. I release my cane and inconspicuously rub my palms on my trousers.

  "Excuse me gentlemen."

  Jason Jones

  Some thing’s not right here. I step into the dark observation room. Computer screens and monitors are lit and the three technicians manning them turn and look at me with total fear in their eyes. Director White's jacket is thrown over the back of a chair and her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows.

  "I'm pulling you!"

  "No. That's what you called me in here to do. Isn't it?"

  "I called you in to listen, observe. We were clear. You have racked up a list of offenses that are subordinate at best and all of it leads back to me."

  "This case-"

  "It is not a case! This is not a trial and you can't grill the Secretary of Defence like a defendant. You're out."

  "This CASE and you stink. You didn't want to find out the truth, did you? You called me in for the record. Didn't you? You wanted your tidy report to say you had Agent Jason Jones question the Secretary of Defence and even he found nothing. I never pegged you for slimy."

  "Watch it Jason. You’re treading on dangerous ground."

  "No, Barbara. You are. You ever try to muzzle a dog in attack mode? It doesn't end well for the one holding the muzzle."

  "You weren't ready for this. I should have known. You should have stayed on vacation. "Leave."

  "
You won't be using my name on this debacle. I hereby formally withdraw from the panel. I'll clean up first."

  I pull the door knob gently. The technicians look as baffled as Phil and Benjamin that I have composed myself so quickly.