Still Alive Pt. 01

"Damn. This guy's really freaking good. He should be working for us instead of … whoever. As far as that goes, who the hell is bankrolling him?

"He's got to be military, right?" she mumbled, studying her notes. "Special forces? Retired, maybe? And … yeah. It's probably a guy since less than ten percent of the elites are women."

"Sounds about right," a man said.

Ashley shrieked. In a startled reflex, she threw her mouse. "Don't sneak up on me like that, Kris!"

He caught it midair and returned it to its pad on her desk. "I thought you were talking to me. I wasn't intending to scare you."

"Just for that," she said, "you're going to the break room and getting me a Red Bull Zero."

"Given what you just did, I'm not sure more caffeine is a good idea, but fair enough."

"I talk about these sorts of puzzles to myself aloud. It helps me think." She paused. "Wait …"

Dozer stood quietly as Ashley formed the basis for her new hypothesis. When she remained quiet, he said, "Wait for what?"

"You were an Army Ranger?"

He nodded.

"Perfect. Red Bull me. Then I want to have a few words with you."

"I'm sorry I startled you, Ashley, and⁠—"

"It's not about that. You saved my mouse from destruction which makes us even. It's sort of about tactics, or logistics."

He nodded and stepped out. He was only absent for a minute.

"So. Whatcha got?" he asked, cracking and placing a cold can near her right hand before opening a Coke for himself.

Ashley described her thoughts and conclusions.

"Yeah. Totally plausible, if not downright likely."

"Six incidents on four continents where the DoD has or had people deployed within two hundred miles? Any chance they might have been legitimate operations?"

"No freaking way," Dozer answered. "Someone's in for some serious shit if the right people find out. If I was given and followed orders to do some of those things, I'd have been court-martialed alongside my commanding officers."

"Would you have had the means to, I don't know, sneak off on your own to do something?" Martel asked.

"If it was only for a few hours? Possibly. The things you've described had to take at least two or three days. But … the one on Al Bahbijn? I'm imagining it taking maybe a week if done by someone like me."

"Makes it seem more unlikely it's someone active, then."

"Yeah … unless he or she was on liberty."

"Huh."

Ashley twiddled a one-hundred-euro casino chip between her fingers, the one which grew to several stacks playing blackjack in Austria. She'd cashed them in but kept that first chip as a memento. She'd had a very lucky run that evening and considered it a bit of a charm.

She said, "Getting deployment records shouldn't be too difficult, but finding out leave schedules to correlate with these events? I don't know about that."

"I think Jeff has connections in the OPM."

"Worth a shot," Ashley said. "Maybe he can call in a marker. Idea still plausible?"

Dozer shrugged and stood to leave. "Possibly. Anyway, I'm out for a week."

"Where's the wind blowing you now?"

"Taking PTO while I have the chance. I'm going to camp with some buddies near Snowshoe."

"Sounds fun. Enjoy your time off and get some rest."

"Thanks. Later," he said and stepped out.

Ashley looked at the clock on her iMac's screen. It was 6:58 PM. Checking Jeff Wesson's office, she found the lights were extinguished and the door locked. She returned to her own to send an email.

Subj: Need some help at the DoD.

Jeff,

I have a theory. A strong one. I ran it by Ritter a few minutes ago, and he concurs. I won't go into detail, but I'm hoping you can contact someone at the Office of Personnel Management at the Pentagon and have them get you a list of personnel who had liberty on the dates listed below. It'd be helpful if they can cross-reference them to the assigned stations also attached.

Regards,
AM

PS: See those commas?

JONATO Base, Doha, Qatar
Sunday, August 16, 2015, 12:50 PM

"Well. If it isn't the major with no hanging fruit."

Wright immediately recognized the voice and stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly to face the man who'd approached from behind. "Look at that. It's twizzler dick himself."

"That's about right. It's about as long as a licorice stick," the man challenged.

"Should have said Good & Plenty, but I've heard scuttlebutt that you're neither."

"At least I'm getting my pickle wet," the man said, waggling his ring finger which bore a gold band.

"My little piggy is plumper than your pickled peep."

The men continued to stare at each other for several silent seconds before the target of the last insult broke into laughter. "That's a good one! Poetic, too. I'm stealing it," he said, reaching out for a handshake.

Mark grasped the man's hand and shook it firmly, smiling broadly himself. He then grabbed his childhood pal's shoulders and embraced him in a bear hug. "Jeez, Kolache, how long has it been?"

"Two years, almost to the day since we crossed paths in Hawaii," answered Lieutenant Colonel Adam "Kolache" Coleman, a man Mark Wright had known for more than thirty years.

They had spent third grade through high school together, and, after graduation, maintained as tight a friendship as the constant churn allowed. While Wright went to MCRD San Diego for boot camp, Coleman enrolled in the School of Aviation and ROTC at the University of Oklahoma, earning his commission as a second lieutenant in the Corps upon graduation.

"How is Erin? Still putting up with you, I guess?"

"She's doing really well. She's particularly happy because I'm going stateside."

"Yeah? Where are you heading next?"

The man grinned. "St. Louis area."

Wright scrunched his brows, a touch perplexed. "The Corps has no presence there."

"True, but you and I do. So does Erin."

Mark weaved the words into the larger context and came to an uncertain conclusion. "You're retiring?"

"I completed my twenty years in June. Erin's been incredibly patient with me for the last seven of them, and it's time I gave her a break. She deserves it, so … yeah. I'm retiring."

"Shit. No way. I thought you were a lifer like me."

Coleman drew his iPhone from his utilities and began tapping its screen. "So did I, but⁠—" his grin broadened "⁠—Erin is four months pregnant. I'm about to be a father, Mark, and we both want to be close to family."

He showed Mark an image of a sonogram.

"Shit!"

Coleman laughed. "That's all you know how to say now?"

"No! Congratulations … uh, I hope?"

"It was a surprise, but yeah. We're both happier than you can imagine. You and I have a lot to talk about. Have you had lunch?"

"I was heading to the mess when you sniped me. Work for you?"

"Perfect. Lead the way."

"You sure you're ready to take off your wings and start changing diapers?" Mark asked as they exited the building.

"I wouldn't have turned in my DD 2656 if I wasn't," he replied. "And the timing couldn't be better. My squadron's heading home. We've been deployed for a year. VMFA-243 flew in three weeks ago to take over. We only stopped here because of an issue with one of our jets. The F-35 still has kinks that need to be worked out. Personally, I think the DoD operationalized them too soon. Anyway, I opted to have the squadron hole up here until the mechanics are done. With any luck, we'll launch as separate four-ships tomorrow and won't be delayed too long."

"When do you hang up your uniform?"

"The moment I walk off the base after we land at Iwakuni. Erin went on ahead and moved our stuff back to the States and has already found us a cozy little house in Brentwood, if you remember where that is."

"Shit, dude, you think I've done a core dump or something?"

"No, I'm the one doing the Corps dump."

The pun elicited a mild laugh from his friend. The two separated in the serving lines as they chose their meals but rejoined each other at a table in short order.

"At the risk of getting too far up into your business, Erin's pregnancy was a surprise?" Mark asked.

Adam chuckled. "We tried to start our family something like five years ago, but nothing ever took. We started having tests run. Did you know being female costs more than being male?"

"You would know," Mark answered with a dry laugh.

"Well, it's a fact. Costs me fifteen bucks to get a haircut. Six or seven if I go to a camp barber. Erin's are more like forty, and you've seen how short she likes to bob her hair, so it's not a quantity thing. A pair of jeans costs me thirty-five dollars. Hers? Twice that.

"Same thing goes for fertility testing. I went to a clinic, deposited a little something-something into a cup, and got an A-OK a week later. The very first one of her series of tests cost five times as much as mine. Granted, insurance covered most of it, but still.

"They never found a cause for her inability to conceive and decided it was probably lifestyle or stress." He grinned happily. "Then, four months ago? Bingo bango bongo."

"Wow. I've never seen you look so proud. I'm happy for you," Mark said.

"Thanks. It's funny, huh?"

"What is?"

"Remember, years ago, how you and I rode our bikes in the neighborhood teasing the girls playing outside? Mark, I fell deeply and completely in love with one of them, married her, and we're having a child together."

"Cooties and all?"

Adam laughed hard. "Yeah. I don't think I ever told you this, but Shannon was quite smitten by you at the wedding. She told Erin right after we got back from our honeymoon that she was disappointed you didn't ask her out."

"No way."

"No lie."

"I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm saying there's no way I could have. For one thing, she was married at the time."

"For only a month longer. Come on, Mark. What the hell is wrong with you? Don't get the wrong idea, but Shannon is as brilliant and gorgeous as Erin. They're identical twins, after all, and Shannon's still single, hint hint."

"Doesn't matter. It's easier being single. I'm surprised she doesn't feel the same way considering how brutal her divorce was."

"The difference is that you're not a douchebag like Freddy the Philanderer was."

"Whatever," Mark said dismissively.

"I'm just saying. You're not getting any younger."

"Change the subject."

Coleman observed his friend's carriage shift pensively for several moments, ending with a slight smile and a chuckle.

"What were you just thinking about?" he asked.

"It's strange. I was on leave a couple of weeks ago when a local friend of mine asked if I'd consider marrying his daughter. Ever since then, I've actually caught myself unintentionally thinking about it."

"Oh?" Kolache said with arched eyebrows, keenly interested in anyone with the potential of ending his friend's bachelorhood. "Tell me about her."

Wright withdrew his phone from his pocket and tapped a bookmark for a page of a university's website displaying photographs and biographical information for students who had won a particular research and development scholarship. He then handed the phone to his friend.

"Her name is Farah Salman. She's graduating with a master's in electrical engineering from Doha University of Science and Technology in December. I've known her, in passing, for more than a decade. Met her as a child during my stint here in the early aughts back when I was a gunny, just a few years before I went to OCS."

Coleman studied the image carefully. "Was that near the thing you told me about? When you had your first kill shot?"

"It wasn't near the time, it was the time. She and her father, who I now consider a friend, were the ones being threatened."

"Freaking hell. She's definitely no kid anymore. She's gorgeous."

"She kinda is."

"You'd rob the cradle?"

"She's twenty-four now, douchebag, and you've known Erin since she was, what. Ten? Same thing."

"Yeah, but Erin's only two years younger than me, weirdo."

Mark chuckled again. "It's not going to be a problem."

"How's that?"

"You know, a lot of marriages in this part of the world are arranged. Farah's was. Her husband was killed a few years ago. Innocent bystander sort of thing."

"Shit. That's horrible," Coleman said, shaking his head slowly. "Absolutely pathetic when civilians get caught in the mess."

"Yeah."

"I've never been able to wrap my head around the whole concept of arranged marriages. I mean, if it's a cultural thing, fine, but both sides should be in. What if the other person isn't?"

"She was okay with it. She approached me right before I came back here and told me she would be a devoted wife and would 'certainly come to love me,'" he said, air-quoting the phrase.

"Holy shit, dude." Coleman laughed boisterously.

"What's so funny?" Wright asked.

"This is the first time I've ever heard of a man having a woman propose to him . Tell me I'm wrong."

"You are. Just like always. I thought we were going to change the subject?"

"Fine. Other than the fact that a lovely woman with a lovely name and even more lovely doe eyes proposed to a fucking idiot, what else is new with you?"

Mark let the dig pass. "Not a whole lot. My CO and I get along well, and the captains and NCOs who report to me are reliable, respectful, and dependable. Couldn't ask for anything more."

The colonel's phone vibrated in his pocket. He removed it and looked at the display. "Ah. It's my squadron's plane wrangler. He's texting me updates with a few questions."

"No worries. Do your thing," Mark said.

The table was quiet aside from the tones of messages being sent or received. Mark occupied the time scrolling through some social media. Coleman noted his occasional pauses which were followed by smiles.

"Sorry about that," the colonel said when he'd completed the exchange. "Did you hear what happened near Al Bahbijn a few weeks ago?"

"All I know is that a plane crashed at an airbase there, but there are … rumors."

"You bet there are," Adam agreed. "Talk over the fence is that a lot of baddies in this part of the world were … dispatched."

"Wouldn't know. I'm not plugged into that particular power strip," Mark said, deciding to lie to the man with whom he'd stood at an altar years before. "Why do you bring it up?"

"If it's true, the DoD will soon be yanking everyone out of here in a heartbeat."

"My CO was voicing similar predictions a few weeks ago, but his thinking was that it'd be due to funding cuts, not a lack of … motivation."

"This conversation has become suspiciously circumspect," Lieutenant Colonel Coleman said as he twirled up a forkful of spaghetti carbonara against a spoon while watching his friend. He continued to observe him as he placed the pasta in his mouth and chewed.

"Not my circus, not my monkeys."

"Yeah. I get it, but you need to keep your eyes and ears open for whatever comes your way next."

"I always do," Mark responded vaguely when he observed one of his NCOs approaching from the opposite side of the mess hall.

"Sir, your office got a call from a sentry that someone named Jassim something-or-other is needing to speak to you. They're holding his truck outside the main gates," the staff sergeant said.

It'd never happened before, and Mark's instincts bristled. "You didn't get a last name?"

The man removed a slip of paper he'd tucked into a pocket. "Kahn."

"Can you give me a lift?"

"Of course, sir."

"Always great to see you, Kolache, but I have to deal with something. Hopefully we can catch up again before the big day. Give my regards and best wishes to Erin, okay?"

"Sure thing. Take care of yourself, my friend."

Wright followed his NCO through the main doors of the mess. A light utility vehicle was parked nearby, and he entered the passenger side.

Five minutes later, he saw his friend's work truck pulled off to the side of the access road. He spoke briefly with one of the sentries, then stepped through the turnstile to exit the base's secure perimeter.

As he approached Kahn's van, Mark observed his friend's expression showing distress, but he didn't yet understand why. Mark gestured for Jassim to roll down his window, but instead, he pointed to the passenger seat. Mark walked around to the other side and opened the door.

"Please get in. It is Farah," Jassim said in a thick, heavy voice. "I must take you to her."

Mark climbed inside but left the door ajar. "I need to go sign out first. I can only spare two or three hours⁠—"

His body quaked as two thousand volts of electricity, nineteen times per second, coursed through barbed darts in his torso. The man he thought was a close friend and confidant spirited him away from the security of his base and armed men who'd been mere meters away, oblivious to the abduction. He didn't notice the hypodermic which then pierced his skin, injecting his deltoid with propofol and haloperidol. He lost consciousness within seconds.

When Major Mark Wright came to, he found himself bound with steel-reinforced tie-wraps, the sort his friend used on the job to securely lash bundles of cables in elevator shafts. Feeling warmth drip from his wrists, he quickly realized the escape maneuver used for the typical nylon ties was, instead, lacerating his skin. He was unclothed save for a swath of completely opaque material covering his eyes.

He was in solitude. Eons seemed to stretch between appearances of people who fed him a half-slice of bread and not enough water.

He could feel pain. He could smell scents. He could hear noises, though muted and muffled. He could see absolutely nothing until his mind conjured visual hallucinations as the Ganzfeld effect began to work its wonders or, as time continued to stretch, its horrors. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He compared it to a marching cadence and pace he had practiced since his first days of basic training. His pulse was double his normal resting rate and he focused on self-calming.

The strategies were far less than effective leading him to begin doubting his sanity.

Arlington, VA
Monday, August 17, 2015, 7:30 AM EDT

Ashley had taken paid time off to relax after her latest assignment involving the rescue of the chief executive officer of yet another European corporation who had been taken for ransom. But, unlike the recovery Dozer had wrapped up in Kolkata weeks before, Ashley was also responsible for orchestrating the safe return of his wife, two children with their spouses, and four grandchildren from a yacht in international waters near Somalia. The manner of extraction also differed in that Gleek's team went "wet," a term not related to the fact the rescue occurred in the Arabian Sea.

When she arrived at work the Monday following her time off, she found a manila envelope on the seat of her chair. The words "You owe me!" were handwritten in black magic marker across its front.

"Hello, what do we have here?" she whispered to herself as she began unclasping the flap.

She removed the stack of papers and examined the cover sheet. It only took a few seconds for her to discover that Wolfram's owner had managed to get the cross-referenced list of personnel with approved leaves on the dates and at the locations she provided him.

"Holy crap," she slowly whispered, her eyes dancing rapidly between the papers and her iMac's screen. "No freaking way it can be this easy."

Within thirty minutes, she'd tightened her hypothesis.

She punched a button on her desktop phone programmed with Jeff Wesson's number.

"You in your office?" she asked when she heard his voice.