Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  Ignoring my comment, he continues, “We represent a certain group who can use your skillset.”

  “And what will my skillset be used for?” I ask.

  I’m extremely worried, as I know there are a lot of shadow groups who use special ops personnel for some very unpleasant tasks. In certain arenas, they turn from taking care of the bad guys to becoming one themselves. As much as I hate some of the things I’ve done, in the end, I’ve always attempted to do what’s right. Now, that may not seem so from the other side’s viewpoint, but it’s how I operate nonetheless. As bad as are some of the things I have to do in order to accomplish a mission, I do have a conscience and I try to listen to it. I try not to be cruel or malicious in the things I have to do.

  “That is where we get to the sticky part of the conversation. Unfortunately, it’s one of those things you have to agree to before I can tell you what the job entails. You can sign a dozen NDAs and it won’t make a difference,” the man answers.

  “This has a ring of a private military corporation. I’m going to tell you right off the bat that I’m not a fan. If this is an introduction into one, tell me now and we’ll part ways,” I say.

  The man chuckles. “I can tell you this isn’t a PMC.”

  “Any other hints that you’d care to share?” I query.

  “It isn’t cat juggling. Well, perhaps it actually might be like cat juggling,” the man answers.

  The others around the table haven’t changed their expressions one iota.

  “If there’s a chance I’ll get to juggle cats, then I’m intrigued,” I comment.

  “With this, there won’t be any rewards or accolades, other than compensation.”

  “Well, I’m not one for chasing colorful ribbons anyway,” I say.

  This has the smell of a three-letter department recruiting, but I already contract with those, whether they’re on the paper or not. That’s just common knowledge. What they seem to be offering isn’t much different than what I’m doing already, so there has to be a catch somewhere. I ask the question.

  “It will be full-time. No more contracts, but you will respond when activated. And, it won’t be a conglomeration of teams thrown together based on availability. You’ll be working with one team each and every time,” the man responds.

  I ask a few more questions, but I’ve had better conversations with brick walls for all the answers I receive.

  “What will be the focus of our endeavors?”

  “Look, Mr. Walker, I’m not able to tell you much, but I can assure you that it fits in line with the moral standards you’ve shown to date. I’m only going to say this, and it’s more than I should. Do you remember those creatures that took down your team?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  He just looks at me. I understand the implication he’s getting at, but my mind goes wild with thoughts. If they’re hinting at going after them, I barely survived the first encounter. And that was mostly because of luck. The prospect they seem to be offering won’t be trying to outsmart people or security systems, but on a whole different level. I’m not sure I want to ever face something like that again.

  The man slaps a card on the table and rises, the other three standing with him.

  “Mr. Walker. I’ll leave you some time to think on it, with the assurance that you’ll be operating with equally skilled personnel. Call this number if you’re interested. I wouldn’t take forever; the number will be disconnected after twenty-four hours. If you choose not to call, no harm done and you’ll return to your previous status. And, if we don’t hear from you within the allotted time, we were never here,” the man says, then the four of them leave without another word.

  Having risen with the group, I stroll over to the table and retrieve the card. There’s nothing but a printed number on it. No identification as to whom the number belongs to. This seems a little overdramatic, and I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of Men in Black.

  To be honest, I feel torn. It would be nice to have something full time, but then my time wouldn’t be my own. As it is, I can accept or turn down an offered contract. Of course, turn down too many and the calls stop coming in. And, if I opt in, then I’m in. With these types of organizations, there isn’t an “I quit” option after learning what it’s about. There will more than likely be a termed contract that will need to be signed along with a whole slew of NDAs. Plus, there’s the implication that part of the job might entail meeting up with the same creatures—and yes, the man using that exact term wasn’t lost on me—and I’m not sure any encounter like that could end any differently than it did before.

  I’m saved from any further contemplation as the general and my contact return, the contact poking his head in the doorway.

  “Jack, there’s one other thing we’d like to show you,” he says, backing up and sweeping his arm.

  I stuff the number in my pocket and follow. We enter another conference room, this one carrying a much different atmosphere. There’s a crowd of people standing at one end, some of whom I recognize from photographs, although they’re much cleaner at this meeting.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Captain Walker,” the general states.

  The hostages we rescued and some of their family step forward, giving me thanks and shaking my hand. Some of the women give me pecks on the cheek and hugs. One young woman gives me a hug and whispers “I’m so sorry” in my ear. Apparently, they were told about the men lost during their rescue, which makes me feel a little better—they’ll be remembered as heroes in these people’s lives. Even though they were lost after the rescue, it does my heart good.

  I know the general is introducing me this way to make it look like a purely military operation rather than a bunch of contractors. The stories told across the world say that a special ops team went in and rescued the hostages.

  I really don’t know what to say. Many eyes are wet with tears; moms, dads, family members, and the hostages themselves. I really didn’t need this, but they apparently wanted to meet with their rescuers, only to be informed that five of them died during the operation. I’m not sure if they were told about the other team, but their joy at being alive makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I give the standard phrases: “Just doing my job” and “My pleasure.”

  However, seeing their happiness at being alive and their families’ joy floods my heart with the same feelings. This, lives saved and families restored, is why I do my job. I honestly don’t need, or really want, accolades, but I have to say that it’s nice seeing them appreciate the sacrifices.

  The senator approaches. “Captain, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Words just aren’t enough. And, I’m sorry about your men. I know that the trade of five men for my daughter, and the others, may not seem fair, but their sacrifice won’t be forgotten. Thank you.”

  There isn’t the offer of “look me up when you get out,” and the lack of it makes the thank you all that much more sincere. One young man told me how this experience, his being rescued, and the sacrifices made on his behalf, caused him to rethink his life, and that he was going to make something of it. That he wanted the lost men to be proud of whom they had rescued.

  The meeting is short, but filled with emotion. Soon, the rescued hostages and their families leave after another round of thank yous, handshakes, and hugs. I’m both numb and overwhelmed at the same time, cycling through the feelings.

  As I’m escorted to the entrance, the general lays a hand on my shoulder. “Son, you have a difficult decision ahead of you. Just know that there isn’t a right or wrong one here.”

  The drive home is a mix of emotions. However, the senator’s thank you and the woman’s soft whisper of “I’m so sorry” sit in the forefront of my mind. I haven’t had much of a chance for an emotional release following the mission, and it catches up to me halfway home. I have to pull over as hot tears stream down my cheeks. I’m an absolute wreck as joy and sorrow fill the same space.

  It comes upon the soul,


  Unbidden, stealthily creeping in,

  Then, grabbing sorrowfully hold in its powerful grip,

  The painful void in the heart,

  Reacts with involuntary tears,

  The hot liquid dripping over cheeks,

  Once buried under years of compression,

  The memories surface,

  Their voices crying out to be heard once more,

  Sorrow builds to overwhelming levels,

  Yet crying through it all,

  Triumph rides company,

  Through tears that threaten to rip the soul apart,

  A hand gently caresses and a voice whispers,

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, you made it.”

  I’m sure, when I’m older, I’ll just be that bitter guy who cries in the corner while sucking on his thumb.

  Back at the house, I only have a few hours before a decision has to be made either way. The competitive nature in me is fighting with the desire for things to remain as they are. I’m not really competitive against others, although it may seem that way at times. I’m competitive with myself. I’m always seeking to learn or improve, no matter in what area. I push myself, sometimes to the point where I’m faced with an “Oh shit, I’m about to die.”

  The number lies on my desk in front of me, as if I’m having an internal dialogue with it. I feel like I’m standing on the edge and that, with one phone call, I’ll step over it and into another world. It’s just a feeling I get staring at the ten digits imprinted on the card. I like the time I have to be my own to control…for the most part. I enjoy time with my kids, and I’m not sure how that will change.

  The man at the table mentioned that I wouldn’t be facing anything that would go against my moral standards, for whatever that’s worth. Some would view what I do as highly immoral, but I don’t have to live with them. I only have to live with myself, even if that’s kind of a hard thing to do at times.

  Several times, I reach for my phone, even dialing the first numbers. I’ve been in this business for a while, and it’s nice knowing I can quit at any time. I have a little saved up and can survive on that, so that’s not the issue. What’s really stopping me is that I’m not getting any younger. Whatever I’m going to do, these are pretty much the last few years I’ll be able to do it. I’ve lived my life in a way that I won’t have any regrets for not following opportunities…I can sit and not fester over the things I should have taken advantage of.

  I pick up the phone and dial the number, my heart pounding as it rings through. The call is answered on the second ring.

  “Grab pen and paper,” a modulated voice states.

  “Done.”

  I’m given an address and time to meet, then the call goes dead with a click.

  * * * * * *

  I’m in a coffee house, the morning rush in full swing. I glance at each of the customers, trying to see if they’re paying me special attention. A couple make eye contact, smile, and then look away. I hate crowds, and the general hubbub inside is grating on my nerves. A man suddenly appears, pulling out a chair. His ponytail streaked with gray hair swings around like a whip as he abruptly sits and sets a worn briefcase in the chair next to him.

  “Mr. Walker?” the man asks.

  I nod, not even bothering to ask his name, as I know I’ll be given a bullshit one.

  “I can’t answer much, but if you have any questions, now is the time to ask,” he says, our voices barely heard above the din.

  “Will my time at home alter much?”

  “Not much. But, you won’t have the option to turn down the call. You’ll have what time there is between operations to yourself. Know that you’ll be monitored for the first while, both for your protection and ours,” the man answers.

  “Will there be advance notice of any call-ups?”

  “We do the best we can to give advance notice, but sometimes, as you well know, that’s not possible.”

  “And how long are the standard operations?”

  “Well, I’d hardly call what you’ll be doing ‘standard,’ but you can plan on them being a little longer than you are used to. If you’re concerned about time with your three kids, I’d say you’ll get equal time with them, but that’s all I can say.”

  It wouldn’t take much to know about my kids, but I don’t like him bringing them up. It feels kind of like a threat, but I also know that’s probably just my protective instinct forging to the front. Fuck with my family, and I won’t bring the rain to your day, your day will just end.

  “Life and health insurance?”

  “Your kids will be very well off for the rest of their lives. The medical is taken care of.”

  “And what do the operations entail?” I ask, knowing he won’t answer, but I’m seeing how far I can go with the questions.

  The man just stares at me, then gives a small shake of his head.

  “Fair enough,” I chuckle. “I’m done with my questions.”

  “So, I’ll need a yes or no. Yes, we move forward. No, I walk out of here and we never met. Your life will continue as before and you’ll not hear from us again.”

  “Yes,” I say, knowing I’ve just committed myself to things beyond my control.

  It’s both scary and exhilarating. If I didn’t have the kids to think about, there would be no hesitation. Other than fueling my adrenaline addiction, I’ve always felt that what I do has protected my kids in some way. That if I take out the bad guys, there will be fewer around to harm them. I know, it’s out there, but it’s what I carry with me. And, even if it weren’t for my kids, then it’s for someone else’s. But, the thought of facing those creatures again, if that’s what the man truly alluded to, will more than likely end with a life insurance policy being cashed out. But I’ve already given my answer.

  “Follow me, then.”

  We end up at a table in the library of a community college. He pulls stacks of paper from inside the briefcase and places them in front of me, encouraging me to read every word and assuring me that he has all the time I need. I’ve never been good at reading lawspeak, but the phrasing of the documents is quite clear in its contexts and ramifications. “Tell and you die” is a pretty easy concept to comprehend.

  I sign the forms and he stacks them neatly into a manila envelope, sealing it shut. He then withdraws another and hands it to me.

  “Your ID and other pertinent information is in there. Follow the instructions in the enclosed letter and report to the facility at the time indicated. Welcome to the team,” he says, rising and extending his hand.

  Then he leaves, and that’s that. I peek into the envelope, seeing a military ID card with an associated vehicle tag. Looking at the identification, I learn that it seems that I’ve been brought back into the Air Force as a captain. There are instructions to report to Petersen Air Force Base in two weeks’ time, along with flight arrangements from McChord AFB and notes that I’ll be met at the aircraft. I have to admit that it was thoughtful of them to give me another weekend with all of the kiddos. Stuffing the materials back into the envelope, I leave.

  * * * * * *

  As I head down the lowered ramp of the C-130, the dry warmth of the high plain of Colorado feels nice after the bumpy ride. I have a lot of hours flying the 130, but it’s definitely a different experience being in the back as opposed to occupying the driver’s seat. I’m met at the base ops building and settle into the back seat of a black Suburban. So far, it’s really not much different than when reporting in for any old contract, with the exception that I have no idea what I’m going to be doing.

  The weekend with the kids was peaceful and filled with laughs, movies, and food that should have outright killed us. This time, the movies playing at the drive-in were worth watching, so we piled into the Jeep and watched with the top down. Those are the times worth living, rather than seeking the adrenaline that I seem to require. When I see them laughing and freely living their lives, it gives me a sense of happiness that makes slogging through jungles and sleeping drenc
hed through a downpour worthwhile.

  Leaving the base, we head out of Colorado Springs and down Highway 115. I realize things are going to get interesting when we take the turn off to Norad Road. Other than a large housing development at the base of Cheyenne Mountain, there’s only one place the road leads. The NORAD facility once served as the North American Aerospace Defense Command, but those operations were transferred to Petersen AFB and NORAD was placed in a warm standby mode.

  After the checkpoint, we turn onto a side road prior to arriving at the main entrance. The road winds through hills lined with pumice dirt and sparse pine trees until an almost vertical slope rises to one side. Passing another checkpoint filled with concrete pads, we drive through a concrete entrance that cuts into the mountain.

  Entering yet another conference room, the lead man I originally spoke with and the woman rise as I walk in.

  “Mr. Walker, welcome,” the lead man says, shaking my hand.

  “I’m glad to be here…I think,” I reply.

  “You can call me Cyrus, and I’d like to introduce Ms. Connell. She’ll be your contact and liaison for your team. She’ll provide your intel and facilitate any requests you might have. She is a prior Army master sergeant and has full knowledge of the contacts within the various intelligence agencies,” the man states.

  “Call me Lynn,” the woman says, shaking hands.

  “Jack will do for me,” I offer.

  I’m both worried and intrigued by her. She is a striking woman with bright blue eyes, short-cropped blonde hair, and a diminutive but toned stature. My concern is that I’m going to have to behave if we’re to keep a working relationship, but it may not be easy as I notice the lack of ring on her finger.

  “Are you planning to do a palm reading, Jack?” Lynn asks as I note our handshake lasted a touch longer than was warranted.

  “Nah. I’m afraid I’ll find out that you’re more intelligent and will live longer than me,” I respond.

  “I don’t need my palm read to know the truth of that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Jack, have a seat,” Cyrus says, sitting. “We have a lot to cover and I’m sure you have questions.”