SETI was the search for extraterrestrial intelligent life. It was our outreach program to the stars. In 1995 it lost federal government funding. Was that because we couldn’t afford it? Did we decide we didn’t need a welcome wagon for future alien friends? Or did we no longer need it for a specific reason? Had we already made contact? There are those who would laugh at us and call us conspiracy nut jobs. There are those who would lump us with people who speak in tongues, believe in Bigfoot, and worship the Abominable Snowman. Not that anything is wrong with these things, but they are indicative of a willingness to believe in something that is largely not provable. But let me ask you this, my night time listeners, how come a private company took over the program almost immediately, pumping more money into it than the federal government ever did? Why is a private corporation pouring billions of dollars into a program the U.S. government shut down because they believed it was a ridiculous idea? Come on, America. Answer the question, if you dare. What do you believe?
Conspiracy Theory Talk Radio,
Night Stalker Monologue #899
I offer neither pay, nor quarters, nor food; I offer only hunger, thirst, forced marches, battles and death. Let him who loves his country with his heart, and not merely his lips, follow me.
Giuseppe Garibaldi
CHAPTER TWO
T
HEY DROVE ME
to LAX in the back of a white van with blacked-out windows. Mr. Pink, who called himself my ‘recruiter,’ sat beside me in the first row of bench seats. The two rows behind me were empty.
After the boat, they’d taken me to a room near the San Pedro Detention Facility—a place where those trying to illegally immigrate were usually taken until Customs and Border Patrol could come and get them. When they’d first pulled me from the net, I was as mad as a cat in a tub full of water. I must have hit and kicked five or six of them before they managed to subdue me by tossing a bucket of water on me. The shockingly cold water of the bay stiffened me, and they pulled me roughly but calmly to the deck. I managed to elbow one full in the chin, rocking his head back. For a second, he looked as if he was going to haul back and dust me. By his size, in retrospect, it wouldn’t have taken much. He had arms the size of water pipes and a nose that looked like he’d modeled as the ‘before’ picture for a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Another man with his head shaven on the sides, leaving only a short bit of fuzz on top—what we called a high-and-tight—held my right leg and gave him a look that stopped him in his place. Evidently I wasn’t to be touched, which pissed me off all over again. I tried to kick at high-and-tight, but he held on, his smile straight-lining as he gripped tighter, isolating my knee so it wouldn’t bend.
The boat docked shortly afterward and they carried me into a lighted complex surrounded by razor wire and patrolled by guards. In the receiving area, they placed ankle chains around my legs and cuffs on my hands. Then they attached a chain from the cuffs to the bonds around my ankles, which made me hunch over a little. Finally, they tossed me into a room with only a mattress and a metal chair. The chair was bolted to the floor in the middle of the room. The mattress, on the other hand, could be moved around. If there’d been a window, I might have done so, shifting the filthy striped thing so I could get a better view of the bay. But since they’d chosen to house me in their special Prisoner of Zenda suite, I threw myself down and huddled as best I could in my wet clothes, occasionally shuddering and thinking about how I’d almost made it, how my nightmares had almost been banished forever.
I’m not sure how long I slept, but when they next came for me, I felt the acrid taste of dust in my mouth and my clothes had almost dried. My shoulders ached and my wrists were chafed from the cuffs. The same two men who’d subdued me came in and lifted me up. They were gentler than they had been before. Which was good—I didn’t feel like putting up much of a fight. I was tired and hungry, and had to pee.
They removed my bonds, escorted me to the bathroom and closed the door. It was a regular institutional bathroom with several urinals and stalls, much like you find in elementary schools, prisons, and libraries. On the counter next to one of the sinks was a pile of clothes. I relieved myself, then picked through them. They were all my size. I ditched my clothes and slid into these. Soon I was standing in front of a mirror wearing jeans, a fashion-faded Captain America T-shirt, a light jacket, and Converse athletic shoes. I ran my hand through my light brown hair. It was still too short to comb, but the sidewalls from my own high-and-tight were starting to grow back. I’d have to get them shaved.
My hand stopped in mid-stroke. I was thinking about the future. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that. Everything had been on the here-and-now since I’d decided to kill myself, months ago. Yet here I was, thinking about a haircut, as if that was so damned important.
Someone banged on the door, making me jump.
“Okay, already,” I called.
I took a moment longer to wash my face, removing the last vestiges of the camouflage I’d put on the night before.
I looked at the pile of clothes I’d left on the ground. What to do with them? I’d already transferred my wallet and my St. George medallion. Mr. Pink had something in mind for me and I doubted my old clothes would be necessary, so I left them on the floor of the bathroom.
I was curious about Mr. Pink’s claim that a Fortune 500 Company wanted a used-up sergeant with too many deployments. When I exited the bathroom, Mr. Pink was waiting for me. He wore a black suit with a white shirt, just as I’d remembered from last night. All that was missing were the sunglasses. I wondered if he knew I called him Mr. Pink. And I wondered if it would piss him off.
Despite myself, I smiled when I saw him.
“Hungry?” he asked.
I nodded. “Famished.”
“This way.”
I followed him down an institutional hall lit with fluorescent lighting. His two men fell in behind.
“Get a good night’s sleep?” Mr. Pink asked.
“If you can call it that. Not exactly the best accommodation.”
Mr. Pink stopped, as did his men. He turned to me. “Sorry about the cuffs. We were worried you might hurt yourself.”
“Is that what it was?”
He turned and resumed walking, and we followed. “Early in the process, we had some accidents. So if there was any treatment that appeared to be rough, realize I did that for your own good.”
For my own good.
How many times had I heard that one before?
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “we have provided some sustenance for you. We weren’t sure what you wanted, and it is going on noon, so I decided to give you some choices for lunch.”
As he finished, we entered what looked like an executive dining room. There were three tables, two of which were covered with food—plates of steak, fried chicken, French fries, cheeseburgers, and several salads. Several cardboard containers of Chinese food were open and steaming, as were several pizzas. One half of a table contained various pasta dishes. Another half had fruit, yogurt and healthy alternatives. But what made me laugh were the immense martini glasses filled with shrimp and the three-pound Maine lobster resting as a centerpiece on a plate in the center of the nearest table.
“I take it you have enough to choose from,” he said.
My mouth was already watering. I wanted it all, but if I even tried to taste everything, I’d make myself sick. But it was hard not to imagine myself hunched over and filling my face. We used to talk for hours about food in Afghanistan. Beside movies, sex and cars, it was our favorite topic of conversation. And here, in front of me, was everything me and my friends had ever wanted and then some.
“So what’ll it be?” he asked.
I stepped forward and grabbed an empty plate. I could treat this as a buffet and have a little of all worlds, but somehow I felt I needed to be more specific. If this was my last meal, what would it be? Looking at the table, I realized it was no choice at all.
I grabbed a half-pounder cheeseburger and I added mayo, lettuce, onions, bacon, and ketchup. I filled the other half of the plate with fries, adding a nice pool of ketchup to dip into. Then I took my plate to an empty table and sat down.
“Want something to drink? Beer? Wine?”
I did want a beer. But this wasn’t about wanting. This was about remembering. So I said, “Milkshake, please,” wondering if I might have just asked for the one thing they didn’t have.
“Vanilla or chocolate?”
“Vanilla.”
I placed a napkin in my lap and watched as one of the men went to a cooler and pulled out a vanilla shake. When he brought it over, I sipped it, a cold velvet dream of winter. Then I ate, and as I did, I thought about Trujillo, who lived in Gilroy, California and who always talked about cheeseburgers, fries and shakes at the local drive-in. I thought about how he’d smiled wistfully when he’d talked about the way he’d bite into the burger and the juices would mix with the ketchup. I thought of the detail he’d go into when he talked about his favorite food. And I thought about the roadside bomb that ate him from the inside out the week after I left Iraq.
W
E PULLED TO
the curb at LAX’s Terminal Three, and the two thugs stayed with the vehicle while Mr. Pink escorted me inside. We bypassed all the counters and went straight to security. Instead of getting checked like all the other customers, Mr. Pink knocked on a windowless door beside the security setup. When it opened, he flashed a badge. The heavyset black woman took one look at it, backed up, and decided she didn’t want any part of it. She motioned us through, then locked the door behind us. We walked down a warren of halls, passing ground crew, TSA agents coming back from break, and stewardesses, eventually coming out by a gate that was already boarding. The sign read Flight 1445 to Cheyenne. Looks like I was going to Wyoming.
As he slid me into an aisle seat in first class, he said, “You’ll be met at the other end. Enjoy the flight.”
I thought about saying something to him.
Thank you
didn’t seem appropriate, but I felt I had to say something. The problem was I wasn’t sufficiently in charge of my thoughts to even begin to know what. He made it simple, though, and left before I had to try.
They closed the door to the aircraft and a flight attendant handed me a fluted glass.
“Don’t want to leave you out, soldier,” she said with a twinkle and a smile. I could get used to looking at her.
I took a sip and realized there was alcohol in the drink. I took another sip and stared at it.
“It’s called a Mimosa,” said the woman sitting next to me.
I glanced at her. She looked to be about fifty, wore a flowered suit and pants, and had more diamonds on her hands than a store in the mall.
“Mimosa, huh?”
She nodded.
I leaned back and took another sip. I liked that word—
mimosa
.
The flight attendant took my glass when I was finished and the plane prepared for takeoff. I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, thinking about Mr. Pink and what he’d said to make me decide to give his Task Force OMBRA a chance.
“G
IVE ME YOUR
best pitch,” I said, finishing the lunch, the taste of meat and cheese dissolving with the memory of the roadside bombs exploding.
Mr. Pink smiled like an uncle who had something he wanted to tell you about the family. He’d been standing patiently throughout the meal, but now he pulled out a chair and sat on it cowboy style. He placed his elbows on the table, but didn’t turn towards me. “If you want to kill yourself, why don’t you let us do it for you?”
I confess I’d expected a little more effort.
“That’s your pitch? That’s the best you can do?”
Mr. Pink shrugged, minutely. “I didn’t think I had to say any more than that. You want to kill yourself. If you come work for us, you’ll probably die, but at least you’ll die for something other than your own sense of guilt.”
I felt the blood begin to boil beneath my skin.
“At least your death will mean something.”
My hands clenched until my knuckles burned white.
“At least you’ll be able to ameliorate your own broken pride.”
A thousand epithets begged to be spoken, but I didn’t trust my mouth to work around the ball of anger lodged in it. I barely managed to ask, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know.”
I closed my eyes and flexed as every muscle in my body came alive, screaming to be set free, well aware that the goons in the room could see me and would most likely try and stop me. I almost didn’t care; my anger needed a release. I said as evenly as I could, “There’s nothing I could have done that I didn’t try to do to save those who died.”
“Except die with them,” Mr. Pink said simply. Then he stood and straightened the front of his suit coat. He began walking away. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready,” he said over his shoulder. “Please note, Mr. Mason, that we have a flight in two hours.”
I stared at his departing back, twin death rays scorching him. If only. What did he know, anyway? I’d been to the requisite counseling sessions. I’d learned about survivor’s guilt. I’d spoken with chaplains and social consultants and my chain of command. I’d checked all the boxes and was deemed no danger to myself or others. Was it such a bad thing if I’d reconsidered and decided to just fucking end it all?
What’s so wrong about a little bit of suicide as long as I keep it to myself?
What’s so bad about me dying with a little peace and privacy in the dark of a Los Angeles night?
But Mr. Pink had known what he was doing. He’d struck a chord, which once heard, I wanted to hear again. I wanted to know more.
“Get him back,” I said to one of the men.
When Mr. Pink eventually returned, he sat and we talked and he told me about OMBRA Enterprises LLC. When I asked what they wanted me to do, he told me
help save the world
. When I asked him from what,he saidthat it was on a need-to-know basis. Now I was back in recognizable territory. After all, I was just a grunt. They’d tell me what I needed to know when I needed to know it. In the meantime, I was in it for as long as it held my interest.