“My deniability?”
That got his attention. Prepared to dial, he hesitates.
“Exactly, sir. We require your assistance, but you may be implicated if our objective is uncovered.”
“What objective?”
Dave steps forward. “Rebel spies are infiltrating headquarters.”
The general springs from his seat. “That’s preposterous!”
“Indeed,” I agree, matching his alarm. “And worse yet, Intelligence believes sympathizers are assisting the rebels.”
He smacks down the handset. “We have traitors in our ranks?”
“Within this very building.”
Little does he realize, in this very office.
Gravely concerned, he asks, “Is the R and R program at risk?”
The
what?
Dave is equally puzzled, and fails to fire back any witty one-liners.
At a loss for anything better, I reply, “When rebels are involved, everything is at risk.”
The general contemplates my obscure comment while I nervously await his opinion of it.
“Oh, quite true.”
He lowers to his seat, and I resume breathing.
“Then you understand, sir, the importance of our mission. It is vital that we uncover the scum before it’s too late, but we must proceed with caution. The sympathizers could be powerful figures, and the political implications devastating. Involvement on your part may taint your record and stall further advancement, you do understand. We would prefer to keep your impeccable record intact, so we must ask that you speak to no one regarding this matter.”
The general snaps upright. “It most certainly is impeccable! My record stands above all the rest.” He steps around the desk and slaps a hand to my shoulder. “I knew it all along, the resistance has agents lurking on the inside. And of course you would come to me, my allegiance to the Association is supreme, everybody knows that.”
“Absolutely, sir. Your accomplishments are impressive, and you have come highly recommended by parties who shall remain anonymous.”
Right, since they’re a product of my imagination.
He rattles my shoulder, then goes around the desk and reclines in his throne. “Very well. What assistance do you require?”
Wow, my load of bullshit worked. Now what?
“We require—”
What do we require? I look to Dave.
He says, “Identification, with unrestricted computer access.”
The general asks, “And whose identification do you expect me to hand over?”
Can’t he just make something up? I suppose not. Their adherence to procedure would never allow that. But there is a solution—the original plan, with one small tweak.
“Deceased identities,” I suggest.
Dave glances at me, confused. He doesn’t get it.
The general asks, “What good are deceased identities? When a soldier dies it’s a matter of public record.”
“But not for soldiers recently deceased and not yet recorded.”
Dave glances at me again, and he grows more perplexed. Hang in there, buddy, you’ll see where this leads.
“Now hold on there,” the general says. “What do you expect? Take a few good men and put them to death just so you can have their identities? I’m loyal to the cause, but that’s hardly fair to the men who have to give up a body. Let them die in battle, with honor. You won’t see any kind of help like that from me.”
“Oh no, sir, we have no intention of asking for any such thing. The deaths have already occurred, we only ask that you determine their numbers and issue replacement badges.”
Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”
The general is skeptical. “Are you suggesting fallen soldiers have not been recovered and fully documented? This is highly irregular. And how could you know of such a thing when I do not?”
Dave says, “We are from the
Intelligence
department.”
The general rises up with a scowl.
Dave!
I get between them. “What my associate means to say is, these are sensitive Intelligence matters. We could not disclose this information before meeting with you, I’m sure you understand.”
Locked on Dave, the general’s scowl slowly melts. “Oh, certainly.” He lowers back to his seat.
I explain, “Intelligence is aware of the deaths because we are responsible. A scout craft piloted by known sympathizers was intercepted and destroyed during the escape of a prominent member of the resistance. If you check your records, I’m sure you’ll find a scout craft unaccounted for.”
Dave glances at me and nearly foils his disguise when he brightens up—now he gets it.
The general turns to his computer, jabs keys, then studies the screen. “Why, yes,” he says. “A routine patrol reported rebels and engaged. That was their last transmission.”
“And they have not returned to base.”
“The record indicates missing in action, outcome undetermined.”
“I assure you, a record planted by Intelligence to conceal the hideous plot. No need for internal panic, you understand. The truth is, the pilots were aiding an escape, their craft was shot down, and Intelligence has them on ice. Our assignment is to discreetly assume their identities, infiltrate the network of sympathizers, and expose the traitors. All we require now are badges with the pilot’s identification numbers.”
Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”
I toss a stare his way, hoping he gets the drift. “Yes, and with the necessary access, as Agent Roberts has been so kind to mention more than once.”
“You two are from Intelligence,” the general says. “Why not make your own badges?”
A good point, and like all good points, it deserves an equally ridiculous reason to be overlooked. “You know as well as I, sir, that every time Intelligence does anything unusual, everybody gets nosey. We require the utmost discretion, Project X is top, top secret, I’m sure you understand. No one will suspect a thing if you issue replacement badges for pilots already under your command.”
Dave says, “With unrestricted computer access.”
This time I shoot a hard glare.
The general sinks inward, his gaze drifting across the desktop. He looks up at Dave, then me.
“Very well,” he says. “Let us ensure that Project X is a success.”
* * *
Following my instructions, the general modifies the computer record with further nonsense—the scout craft suffered an unfortunate accident, and the matter has been fully resolved. That should keep any nosey investigators off our trail. Next he takes our photos with a small camera that spits out self-adhesive holo-magnetic strips. From a drawer he pulls out two blank cards, applies the tape with our pictures, then swipes the fresh identification through a magnetic encoder next to his terminal.
He rises and hands over the badges. I clip mine to the lapel of my jacket.
“About the escape,” he says. “Has Intelligence made any progress?”
“Progress?” I ask.
“Have you recovered the subject?”
Is he referring to
my
escape?
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to discuss that, you understand of course, sensitive Intelligence matters. But please, any information you have to offer would be greatly appreciated.”
“I imagine it’s all in the report, but if I might add, a number of soldiers were injured, and I don’t mean just physically, the incident injured their dignity. I’m sure you know how bad morale destroys a unit. If you don’t mind my asking, some of us would like to participate in reprisals when the time comes.”
What the hell is he talking about? I didn’t realize Bobs had any dignity. Plenty of malice, sure, but not dignity.
“I will relay your request. I cannot make any promises, you understand, but please, tell me, what is this talk of dignity?”
He lowers to his chair. “I’m sure you’d agree, a soldier yourself. It’s awfully embarrassing when an entire unit gets its ass kicked by one girl.”
One
girl?
The entire room seems to glow brighter.
Except I’m supposed to know about this. I’ll blow it for sure if I get too curious.
“An unfortunate consequence,” I say, consoling the general as best I can while suppressing an overwhelming urge to ask for more. “Rest assured, she will be recovered soon, and your men’s dignity restored.”
“That’s right,” he grumbles. “After we beat her senseless and have our way with her.”
My arm flinches, my fist tightens. Adrenaline soars into my pounding heart. It takes all I have to keep from lunging over the desk and strangling the macho prick. If a glare alone could harness the rising emotion, the fireball unleashed would leave a bloody stain atop his headless neck.
Dave coaxes me back, the touch across my arm like an awakening hand, shaking loose a nightmare. And like a fading dream, the anger lingers, though reality bleeds through to remind—danger still exists. No mistakes. Stick to the plan. Not the time for revenge, not yet.
Dave takes over. “General Carver, sir, Special Agent Bob and I will need to excuse ourselves, if you don’t mind. Could you direct us to somewhere quiet with computer access?”
The general studies a desktop calendar. “Academy Training Room One is vacant today.” He looks up. “You should find no one there to disturb you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dave says. “And remember, speak to no one about our visit.”
“Consider it done.” The general stands and ceremoniously smacks his chest with a clenched fist. “Long live the Association, Guardians of Order.”
* * *
Back in the hallway, Dave and I each breathe a sigh of relief—huge.
Dave asks, “What was all that nonsense?”
I can only shrug. “Raw instinct.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I guess. Man, that was great. You’re one hell of a bullshitter.”
“A product of stress, that’s all I can say.”
“And what happened at the end? You looked ready to crush the guy’s skull.”
“You heard what he said.”
“Yeah, but shit, man, I’ve never seen you so angry.”
“If they lay a hand on Christina, you’ll see a thousand times that, trust me.” Vengeance returns, just thinking about that sadistic bastard.
Dave silently watches as my fury rises to a boil, his stare growing fearful. “I believe it,” he says.
No—don’t be angry, I won’t be effective. Kill the creep later, after we complete the mission.
I ask, “And what was all that whining about computer access?”
“I didn’t want you to forget this time.”
“Forget what?”
He grins, and it reminds me of him posing as the bum under the bridge, except this time his gleaming teeth are intact. He waves his badge across my view. “How to find what you’re looking for.”
A young woman approaches, studying papers as she moves at a resolute stride, the snap of her heels growing louder. Great, just what I wasn’t looking for. We’ll be caught for sure if we talk to anyone else. Look away and let her walk on by.
Dave gets in her path. “Excuse me, miss.”
Dave!
She stops to offer her attention, and I stop breathing.
“I’m new here,” Dave says. “My first day in fact. Could you direct me to Academy Training Room One?”
“Sure,” she says, then turns halfway and points. “Section C. Take a right at the end of the hall, then a little farther, it’ll be on your left. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it.”
Amazing, he did it. Now if my frantic pulse would just settle down.
“Congratulations on being accepted,” she says. “The best of luck to you.” Then she becomes suspicious. “But come to think of it, there are no classes in room one today. Are you sure that’s right?”
“Did I say one? I mean two, I think. Sorry, I lost some of my paperwork, you know, the dog ate it.”
Like she’s really going to believe that. Then he smiles, like it’s supposed to be funny. What? She giggles.
“That’s just past room one,” she says. “You’ll see the signs.” She continues on her way, the snap of her heels fading.
Can Dave make anyone laugh? Perhaps, and that might be a good thing. I’ll need help laughing about it when we’re caught.
* * *
Dave opens the door and we slip into Academy Training Room One. The lights are off, but high along one wall, small windows let in enough daylight to navigate the quiet space. To my relief, the place is deserted. Each confrontation is only more tense than the last.
At the head of the class is a chalkboard and inactive video screen, and to one side is the instructor’s desk. The rest of the room is filled with long tables facing the chalkboard, and computer terminals spread across the tables, a personal station for each student.
I sit before one of the terminals, constructed of molded gray plastic that houses the keyboard and screen in a single case. Other than the keyboard, I see no other button or switch. I check the sides and back, and still find nothing.
“Where do you turn this thing on?”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Dave says, pulling a chair closer to sit beside me. “I’m just a pilot. You’re the computer genius.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“You know, don’t you?”
“Sorry, Dave, this isn’t working.”
“Come on, Adam, you know all about this computer stuff, remember?”
I do? Matt’s the computer geek. But he’s no smarter than me, so maybe it’s true. What do I know about computers? I know they are binary, based on the states of on or off, akin to yes or no, the most complicated decision you could expect a machine to make. But when a stream of the simple decisions are aligned in precise order and executed at lightning speed, machines become capable of seemingly complex decisions, and equally complex tasks. It’s all an illusion of course, like a dream, where the unbelievable is taken for granted. An illusion we take for granted each time we use a computer, as miles of wire process instructions so quickly we mistake it for intelligence, or dismiss as magic beyond our grasp, when really, we should just be amazed that any of it is even possible, and the miracle actually works. But the question remains—how to turn it on. Unpowered, the miracle makes a good doorstop. In the top corner of the keyboard, one is unmarked, and set off from the others, as good a choice as any. My guess is correct. Like magic, the computer comes to life, whirring followed by faint clicking, and the screen displays a single line of text.