Still Alive Pt. 01

A warmed, full stomach, the complete absence of light, and the sound of a small fan on a desk would usually allow him to fall asleep quickly, but his thoughts pulled him in the opposite direction as he recalled a specific event from years earlier when he was stationed in the Middle East during his second tour.

Like many Marines, Wright had grown weary of the tedium. He'd overheard exhausted pilots frustrated with flying hours-long sorties, never deploying ordnance, feeling their jobs were pointless if their bombs didn't bang.

Then, in a matter of seconds, his world changed.

He held, with incredible clarity, memories of a particular day and those that followed. They had given him a reason to endure. A raison d'être . It certainly wasn't the last, but it was the first time he'd killed combatants. He'd dispatched two men, without hesitation, and was able to sleep quite soundly that night.

The houses, such as they were, were so densely packed, he determined it more effective to canvas areas by rooftop instead of walking the tight streets and alleyways. Mark had trained his men to use not only eyes but also ears. A deployment in a jungle would involve listening for the unexpected sounds of twigs snapping or leaves rustling where they shouldn't. In an exurb setting, it was others. Voices. Loud ones.

"Gunny, do you hear that?" one of his corporals asked.

"Yeah. What are they saying?"

"Need to get closer. It's coming from over there." The junior Marine gestured toward a parapet.

Gunnery Sergeant Wright flashed a hand sign for his men to lower themselves and stop moving. They all went prone, out of sight of the streets below.

Wright and his squad's resident translator maneuvered over the rooftop. "Down there."

Both moved toward an obviously apparent argument, the latter listening intently.

"Someone from the B'qah cadre is demanding to be fed," he said a moment later. "He's threatening to kill a man if his daughter doesn't bake some bread."

"Bread?"

"Yeah."

Wright tilted his head slightly over the wall of the parapet and observed a man raising a rifle and jabbing its butt into a man's torso who was pushing a young girl behind him. There was another man holding a weapon near the first.

"He's saying the child doesn't know how to make bread yet."

The vitriol displayed by the two armed men increased rapidly, with the yelling intensifying. A gloved fist was sent into the unarmed person's face. The second individual brought his rifle up to his shoulder.

"They're B'qah ?" Mark whispered.

"Pretty sure, Gunny. They're bragging about it. Fuck ! I think he's going to kill⁠—"

The corporal's words were interrupted by twin spats from Wright's suppressed M16A1.

"Two down," Wright signaled with his left hand. Another sign followed, instructing his men to survey the surroundings for other threats.

"You did a total tap-tap," a Marine said with boisterous laughter.

"Shut the fuck up, Private," Wright ordered. "Everyone, secure the area."

"On it, boss," another said.

Mark watched over the wall as locals began to gather, tending to the bloody-faced man and removing his distraught daughter from the unpleasant scene.

"Let's get down there."

"Why?" yet another man challenged. "Shouldn't we keep moving?"

"No. Unlike those two dead assholes, we're human. That's why."

By the time Gunnery Sergeant Wright and his men reached the street below, the bodies of the combatants had disappeared. He didn't feel a need to ask how or where they were taken.

He ordered a private first class to tend to the wounded civilian. Using supplies from an aid kit, that Marine cleaned the laceration on the man's cheekbone and applied sterile butterfly strips to aid in its mending.

The man was profusely grateful and offered Wright and his men local currency. He accepted the equivalent of only five dollars as a token, refusing to take the much larger sum the man offered.

He learned his name was Jassim Kahn. His daughter was Farah Salman. His wife had died three years before. Kahn was an electrician, the equivalent of a journeyman in Mark's home country. In the following days and weeks, Mark also learned that Kahn was very well-connected and an invaluable source of local information even after moving to the city.

He was almost asleep when he heard a subtle knock.

"Yes?"

The door to the room opened, and Farah entered. She stepped to the desk and turned on the small lamp next to the fan.

"Something wrong?" Mark asked, sitting up.

"No. Nothing is wrong," she answered, placing his folded clothes on the desk.

"I know it may be considered uncultured, but allow me to indulge one of my customs. I don't believe women have 'a place,'" he said with an air quote, though he didn't know if the gesture would translate. "Thank you for preparing the delicious meal and laundering my clothes."

"It is my honor and pleasure, Mark," she said softly, using for the first time his given name instead of addressing him as Mr. Wright.

She eyed him for several moments, then the stack of clothing she'd washed. From the top, she withdrew Mark's black cotton boxer briefs. She placed the folded cloth to her cheek and stroked her face with it.

"Farah?" Mark spoke, stunned, almost wordless. He immediately rose to his feet. Though he wasn't fully invested in her culture and customs, he knew she was stepping over a line.

"I must return to the university before midday. My father has gone to work."

She moved her hands toward his muscled chest but balked. He stepped out of her reach and held up a palm. "I'm almost twice your age. It'd be improper in so many ways. It would also be disrespectful to the memory of your late husband."

"I completed the iddah long ago. I no longer mourn for him but have grown very fond of you. I would be a devoted wife. I am certain I would come to love you."

"You barely know me, Farah. Yes, you've known of me for a long time, but that's not enough. You shouldn't involve yourself with people like me who … who've done the things I have done. Forgive me. I just … can't."

She sighed deeply in resignation. "It is what I thought you would say. I shall leave you alone, but know this. Each time you depart, I fear I might never see you again. I wish it were permitted for me to kiss you, to touch the lips of a true warrior, but it is not. It is haram ."

"Isn't it also to be alone with me in this room?"

She placed her palms to his chest and stroked it softly. It wasn't static, but something else which electrified his flesh.

"I'm sorry, Farah," he said, pushing her hands away.

"May Allah forgive me," she whispered, casting her eyes down.

Locking the door from the inside, she closed it behind her as she stepped through it.

What if? he asked himself as he reclined back into his bed. The thought kept him awake for almost an hour. Maybe Jassim isn't wrong about Farah .

Yamaguchi Prefecture, Japan
Shin-Iwakuni Plaza
Wednesday, July 22, 2015, 3:41 PM

Colonel Getz stepped out of a confectionery shop with his selection of daifukumochi.

"Care for some red bean mochi?" he asked.

"It looks like a turd wrapped in wet toilet paper."

"It's nutritious. It's even tastier in weather like today's."

He groaned. "I don't know how you can stand to eat⁠—" He stopped speaking when he saw the scheduled bullet train arriving on the overhead tracks two hundred meters ahead of them. "Let's get moving."

Minutes later, their contact offered a subtle acknowledgment of having seen the two men's approach. The three continued walking along the crowded avenue, engaging in small talk about the weather and the prior night's Nippon Pro Baseball game until they reached a sleepy soba shop. They entered and selected seats as instructed by a sign, in Kanji, their meet read and translated aloud before ordering a dish of salted edamame and a pot of tea in fluent Japanese.

The general asked the first question. "Al Bahbijn. How'd Wolfram do it?"

"We didn't, Ernesto. And no one there knows who did. The GM called me from the States this morning, about a half hour before you did. He was worked up like a Tasmanian devil, asking why I hadn't briefed him with my pregame plan."

"Had you prepared one?"

"Yes, but I hadn't submitted it yet. As I said on the phone, I was about to go to Kyoto to meet a friend. My objective was to deal with those people when they departed Al Bahbijn, not when they arrived."

"Why?" the colonel asked.

A few moments of silence elapsed. "General, I don't know this man."

"You spoke to him on the phone earlier. That's Colonel Ronald Getz. He reports to me."

"Has he been read in?"

"Yes," the general answered.

"Fine. Think about it, Colonel Getz. Take fifteen seconds and think ."

It was silent aside from the sound of the colonel pouring tea into three cups. Getz plucked a pod from the dish and nursed its husk, coaxing out the steamed soybeans within. He shook his head several seconds after swallowing.

"I don't know. Tell me."

"Perhaps they were amassing together for a reason."

The younger man nodded.

"And what do you suppose it was?"

"To plan something, maybe?"

"Now there can't be any intel collected on what it might have been," the general aptly concluded.

"Our objective was to give your people the potential opportunity to find a fink in the group. My team was standing down at the time. They were spread out, incommunicado, until the plane crash. They're already planning their exit. I know for a fact they had nothing to do with it."

"Who did?" Gonzales asked.

"Someone with bat-crap-crazy skills. Like I said, we don't know, and I'm going to make damned sure I find out. I've got an ego to protect."

"Of course you do, and I might be able to help."

"Oh? How?"

"I had a UAV tasked there. It caught a pinprick infrared signature leaving the fringe of the area. It got into a vehicle mere yards from a road which means⁠—"

"Can you declassify the footage?"

Gonzales glanced at Getz who withdrew an SD card from his breast pocket and placed it on the table.

"That doesn't answer my question. I'm not laying a finger on that if it's classified."

He shrugged. "For some reason, OpSec chose not to classify it. They didn't see anything of value other than a⁠—"

"Prick getting into a vehicle?"

The general laughed. "That about sums it up."

Getz said, "Still wouldn't be a good idea letting it out of the box until we all have the answers we need, so I double-password protected it. When we get back to our office, I'll text you five random passwords and email another five. Give me a two-digit number you'll easily remember."

"Thirty-six."

The colonel wrote it on a rice paper napkin and tucked it in his wallet. "The text ones go first, so use the third from the text set and the first from the email. Understood?"

"I can count, Ronald."

"How many edamame have you eaten?" he asked as a challenge and covered the saucer on which the two of them had placed emptied pods.

A sigh of exasperation followed. "I don't know, but I'm guessing you do?"

"Eleven. Yeah, I can count, too."

"Okay, children , stop with the pissing contest," Gonzales said. "Ron, let's get back to camp."

"Yes, sir."

"And you," he said to the other individual. "Call when you know something. Anything ."

"Don't expect any miracles. I'm doing this for myself more than you because whatever prick did this denied Wolfram its final paycheck."

"Who knows. Maybe I'd want to shake his hand."

"Easy there. You might need my services again in the future."

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Ronald said.

"I suppose."

"This is, of course, the first time I've met you face to face. I've only ever talked to you on the telephone once and, considering your name, didn't catch on that you're of Japanese heritage. How is your English so perfect?"

"Such a nice thing to ask."

"Sorry. I realize now how it sounded. Forgive me. I'm simply curious."

"I'm nisei , which means⁠—"

"Your parents were the immigrants to the States, and you were born and raised there," the general interjected.

"You don't speak Japanese. How do you know that word?"

"I enjoy solving crosswords. Issei , nisei , and sansei all pop up from time to time."

"Why, Ernesto. I never would have expected you to be a cruciverbalist."

"Nice one," the general said with a hearty laugh, then glanced at his watch. "Maybe you still have time to enjoy an evening with your friend in Kyoto."

"Nope, that's a pass. I've got work to do now, which includes booking a flight to DC as soon as I get back to my hotel."

In less than a minute, the pair of Marines were left by themselves at the table.

Getz chuckled. "Do you believe any of what we were just told?"

"Other than the family history bit, which was interesting, we weren't really given much of anything, were we? Just that Wolfram wasn't involved. Why would they lie? They could as easily have claimed credit and gotten their money."

"Good point, sir. I'm not so sure they'll spend much time or resources to figure out who spoiled their fun, though."

"We'll see. Let's head back," the general said before he swallowed the last of his cup. "Not bad, but iced sweet tea wins every time."

The septuagenarian woman at the till held up a calculator because neither of the men spoke enough Japanese to understand the spoken total. Getz paid in exact change, then the two departed for their return to MCAS Iwakuni.

JONATO Base, Doha, Qatar
Wednesday, July 22, 2015, 8:30 PM

"Goodbye, bab-aqa ," Mark Wright said. Though he personally found it uncomfortable, he accepted and reciprocated the cheek kisses Jassim initiated. "Again, thank you for offering your home to me."

"Until the next time, my friend."

"I do not believe there will be a next time, Jassim. I have done my last."

"Tsst ! No. You can do more things, my son."

Mark laughed lightly. "You call me your son yet ask me to marry her. Do brothers and sisters in your culture do this?"

"You are a foolish boy."

"Perhaps, bab-aqa , but I should not marry Farah. She is a beautiful young woman in every way, and you are to be praised for raising her by yourself. My friend, allow her the freedom to find her own … do you know the English word, 'soulmate'?"

Jassim shook his head.

"It is a person chosen for her by the powers above."

"You have much honor, Mark."

"If only."

Wright opened the side door of the van and removed his bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he walked to the check-in point at the base. A gunnery sergeant driving a passing truck offered to shuttle him to the bachelor officers' quarters. He unpacked his heavy duffel and situated things that belonged to him in their proper places. As to the things that didn't, he reviewed his plans to replace them. He had always been very resourceful in secreting the varied equipment and tools he'd need for particular tasks, and no one had ever been the wiser.

After eating a late dinner, he took a jog around a portion of the grounds, returned, and retired for the evening.

Washington, DC
Thursday, July 23, 2015, 12:14 AM EDT

Ashley Martel looked at the time projected on the ceiling of the bedroom by her digital clock. She groaned in frustration at her inability to fall back to sleep.

"When will I learn?" she growled to herself.

She woke up her iPad and spent time idly surfing the web and reading clickbait for grins. She then turned toward more solid information from the Onion and the Poke, all offering news which gave her the chuckles, improving her mood. Legitimate news sources followed. A national outlet had an article which caught her attention.

"Large Jet Crashes in Middle East and No One Is Talking," advised a headline. She tapped the link.

"Who would?" Ashley asked herself before she read the article barely describing an aviation incident in the Al Bahbijn region of the Middle East.

An iMessage appeared: Its 11:55 this timezone. Fucking wife has been almost useless the entire flight. I bet you're exhausted but requested PTO is denied acknowledge receipt because I don't know when you get it

She laughed.

Ack@1:03 AM EDT. *Wife? I'm hoping that's an autocorrect of you trying to write Wi-Fi. I'd go to HR and show them your text, but since you own the company, I don't think they would do anything about it.

You sometimes sauce your words too so don't even try

Commas are your friend, Jeff.

Eff commas, grammer cop. Is that better? I'm going to the office directly from the airport. What time will you be there?

*Grammar, but good comma. Might go in a few hours because I can't sleep anyway.

Okay. Flight lands at Reagan at 5:34 according to the screen. I'll be there by 6:15

I will be, too. See? Comma.

Your on thin ice already Ashley. Don't get too far from the edge.

She laughed again at his grammatical ineptitude but groaned when the full weight of his final text settled on her.

Arlington, VA
Thursday, July 23, 2015, 2:30 AM EDT

"You're in early," the armed guard manning the gate to the subterranean parking structure said.

"Couldn't sleep. Got work to do," she said, touching her ID to the reader which beeped within a second.

"Not the first time for you, ma'am," the man observed.

Ashley laughed dryly. "It won't be the last."

"Beautiful 'yota."

"Yoda?"

"'Yota . Toyota. Your temp tag isn't in the system."

"Oh. Right. Thanks. I bought it before I went overseas."

"Okay, give me a minute."

She smiled. "No problem. I doubt there's a line behind me."

"Not at two o'clock," the man said with an easy laugh, tapping keys on the terminal. "You're all set. Have a great day."

Ashley was at her desk five minutes later. The first task she undertook was to review the files held on an SD card given to her by a contact.

An email with five random words sat in her inbox. Another set resided in a secure text message. She memorized two of the ten words then securely shredded both digital artifacts. She used them to unlock a multi-gigabyte MP4 file. She eased back into her chair and watched. It required several minutes for her to orient herself to the view recorded in the video. Overlaid in text were the position of the drone in latitude and longitude, its speed and bearing, the camera's azimuth and Z-angle relative to the horizon, and a laser-measured distance to whatever existed at the pip in the center of the frame.

She paused the video and brought up Google Earth in a browser. She entered the displayed coordinates, as well as some other parameters to spin the virtual globe into a position matching the view from the drone's camera.

"Too easy," she whispered to herself, studying the area in detail.

She then opened a GeoJSON file which contained data provided and kept updated by the DoD.

"Very ballsy, General," she said quietly when a layer containing boundaries of airspace classifications was superimposed onto the map. "Your drone was in a no-fly zone. You're lucky it didn't get shot down."

She studied the video for almost an hour and through two cups of coffee. She spent most of that time watching the final minutes, trying to align the Google satellite view of the area to determine which road her person of interest had been driven away on.