The Spook House (The Spook Series Book 1) (6 page)

There were six men including me on the private jet, not including the pilot and co-pilot. We were “disguised” as civilians in case anyone saw us, which was unlikely since we were taken right to a private plane. There were two other young guys besides me. The other three men flying looked older and were undoubtedly higher-ranking.

Once we boarded the plane, the officer in charge ordered us to remove and surrender our watches, cell phones, iPods, and any other timekeeping devices. I thought that was weird. I looked at the other young guys for confirmation, and I got it. They looked confused too. Still, this was the Army, and you didn’t ask questions, even when ordered to do things that didn’t make sense.

I felt naked without my watch. The military is all about punctuality and precision (or they claim to be), and there are harsh punishments for failure to comply with either. With a watch on, I felt in control of my time, if nothing else. Now I didn’t have that, I was starting to feel out-of-control.

At some point after take-off, when the plane had leveled out, the CO ordered us to lower all of the window shades. That was bad. Now I couldn’t look out the window and was feeling really cagey. I started doing the deep breathing techniques they taught us in the interrogation-resistance classes. They didn’t help.

The CO played a video. It was a short documentary explaining the highly classified nature of the material we would be exposed to. We were reminded again of the punishment for non-compliance. The video tried to end on a positive note, mentioning the “honor and privilege” we had to serve our country. Overall, it was kind of lame, but the video was a welcome distraction.

After an eternity, we were told to prepare for landing. Thank God. The plane touched down and slowed to a stop.

Stepping off that plane felt like a rebirth. I was leaving a tiny womb and entering a big, scary new world. The life I knew before had ended, and there was no going back.

As I stepped out into the open, I gasped to take in the fresh air and the vision before me. It was magnificent. For a moment, I wondered if this tiny jet had taken us all the way to Afghanistan or someplace else on the other side of the world. We were on a tarmac in the middle of nowhere. There were mountains in the distance, but they weren’t like the ones I knew in Montana. Those were carpeted with forests. These were desolate. They were just enormous rocks jutting up from the Earth’s crust. There wasn’t a tree in sight, although I got to see what weeds looked like when allowed to grow wild.

There was a collection of squat buildings and hangars in front of us. They were dwarfed by the molten giant behind them. Dominating everything in sight was a rock, or a plateau, or … something like that. I searched my find for the term. Remarkably, I found it. It was a “volcanic plug.” I can’t tell you how I knew this. It was an enormous natural structure created by an underground volcano hardening, or something like that. It looked like a shorter version of Devils Tower – you know, that national monument in Wyoming. I know this because some people in Montana are actually jealous that we don’t have something that cool in our state. Whatever. In any case, this enormous natural wonder was awesome. It was like a giant tree stump or a pillar supporting the sky.

As we disembarked the plane, MPs on the tarmac checked our IDs. The two young guys and I stood there while the other men, who must have been familiar with this site, dispersed. Two more MPs and a young guy dressed like a sleazy lawyer approached us.

“Welcome to Paradise,” the man said. “My name is Kent Chandler. That is called ‘The Rock’,” he said, gesturing behind him. “This facility and everything you see, hear, and do here are top secret. I need to remind you of the consequences of violating that rule. If you do, you will be jeopardizing national security, and will therefore stand accused of treason and acts of terrorism. Your trial will not be public, and there were be no public record of the proceedings. You may be subject to prosecution, incarceration, or execution. In short, you will never be heard from again. The U.S. government will do anything, and I mean ANYTHING, to protect the secrets contained here. Do you understand?”

I was still hung up on the word “execution,” but the other guys managed to say, “Sir! Yes, Sir!”

The man was waiting for my response, and I snapped to attention and said the same.

“Good. There are a number of non-military workers at this site. I am one of them. You don’t salute me, but you will call me ‘Sir,’ and you will follow my orders. Do you understand?”

“Sir! Yes, Sir!”

“You will now be taken to processing to receive your new ID badges. I hope you appreciate the level of security clearance you’re being given. From now on, when you show your ID to anyone in the military or law enforcement, they will stop asking questions. They’ll think you know God and He talks to you in person.”

I couldn’t suppress my smile. Chandler smiled back, thinking I liked his joke. But I was amused for a different reason. Unlike everyone else here, or possibly in the whole world at this moment in history, God does talk to me in person. Or He used to.

I looked around. They say God is everywhere, but somehow, I doubted that He was here. There was nothing here except the base and the rock, and there was something weird about the rock. I could sense it. Maybe there was a presence here, but it wasn’t God. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the isolation in itself was eerie. And that’s what this was: total isolation. Whatever I had to deal with here, I was on my own.

–––––

MPs separated me from other new guys and took me to what looked like a doctor’s office. A series of doctors and nurses there gave me a full physical and did all types of tests with all sorts of high-tech devices. I was even given an MRI. I mean, what the hell? Why were they looking at my brain? At that point I said, “What is all this? Do you think I have cancer or something?”

The doctors and nurses said that this was “routine,” and that was it. They conducted their work silently, like aliens examining an abductee. I admit I was a little weirded out by the whole thing, but then I looked at it another way.

This is good, I thought to myself. Maybe I’m just not used health care that is this good. This place is equipped. If anything happens to me out here, they can handle it.

It made sense that the hospital here would be equipped and ready to deal with anything. If there were a medical emergency out here, there was no other place to go.

After my exam, somebody took me to a small room to wait. From there, two MPs took me to another room for “processing.” This was where they made my ID. They took photos and scanned my face, my retinas, and my palm prints. Like with the medical exam, I thought the amount of information they gathered was a little overkill (and a little freaky), but again, I told myself they were just being thorough. It must have been part of the high-level clearance thing.

I was excited about meeting the other members of the “special unit” I was assigned to – excited, but also scared. Although I hadn’t even met them, I desperately wanted to be accepted by these guys. I wanted to fit in with them in a way I never did with the last group. I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe these guys would be a bunch of psychos or perverts like the ones in my unit in boot, but still, if that turned out to be the case, I wanted to be the one to reject them, not the other way around.

The Chandler the Handler (as I started to think of him) arrived at my room. He had my new security ID (which they had manufactured with incredible speed).

“Congratulations,” he said, handing it to me. I clipped the ID to the front pocket of my shirt. I felt proud wearing it, as if it were a badge or a medal I’d won for some heroic effort or courageous act. In reality, I hadn’t done anything, but that fact that I had a military security clearance of any grade felt impressive.

“Alright,” he said. “Now it’s time to see your new home.” Chandler led me out of the room, down several halls, and to a door with guard posted at it. The MP’s hard blue eyes steeled as they met mine and then scanned me from head to toe, mentally weighing me and choosing what spot he would attack first in event of a fight.

The handler did not need to show his badge. The guard obviously knew him. Chandler, impressively not intimidated, looked at the man and said, “D-Unit.”

The guard nodded silently and turned to face the door. The door had an electronic lock. The handler placed his hand on a panel by the door. The guard did the same. They spoke passwords aloud. I heard the click as the door unlocked and swung inwards.

I noticed the guard’s hand was “resting” on top of the handle of his pistol, the same way you see cops do it on TV during traffic stops or other tense situations. I don’t know why the guard was nervous now. We weren’t in a hostile situation, but he was ready for one regardless. I didn’t get it. All we were doing was going into a room. There was no threat, unless he expected one to come out the door.

Then I got it. The guard’s job was to restrict access of who went in, but he was also controlling who went out.

I felt queasy. Weren’t these supposed to be the barracks? Why was there so much security? I had a bad feeling about this. I was starting to feel a lot like I did in the Army hospital ward in Texas, where I couldn’t tell if I was being held for observation, or being held in captivity.

10

There were seven of us in the room altogether. The group was really diverse. The whole Army was like that. I remember some old veteran saying the same thing during a speech at my high school. He said, “That’s the thing about the Army. It puts a lot of people with diverse backgrounds together who probably never would have met otherwise.”

I remember the old guy smiling as he said that, as if he were looking fondly back on war. That’s how it is with most old people I know. There are guys in my hometown who are the same way. But things weren’t that great in the past, especially not during a war. They just remember being young.

But that guy was right about one thing. The diversity was interesting. Take this group. There were two other white guys besides myself, two black guys, and one Hispanic guy.

One of the black guys was named Dubois. He was from New Orleans. I can’t remember his first name, if I ever knew it.

Dubois was hilarious. During our downtime, he would tell stories, using slang that was like another language. Most of his stories revolved around “jocking the bitches and slapping the ho’s.” Even though I had never heard of most of the terms before, I picked up their meaning from his big smile and excessive body language. He liked girls who were “bootylicious,” and he had been “freaked out” when “messing with

mo-fo’s”, “running from the heat”, and “fighting for the cause.”

Dubois, like a lot of people, it seemed, lived in his own world. In Dubois’ world, nobody had to worry about AIDS. They “hooked up” quickly after meeting at parties or on vacation or wherever, and “got together” often.

Dubois once told a story about getting “the clap” from some “skank.”

“Dubois, you fool. Haven’t you ever heard of condoms?” a man named Boudreaux said.

“Hell yeah. But I can’t help myself,” he said, flashing a big Dubois smile. “I like ‘em tasty!”

Boudreaux was a big black guy. I never knew any black people before joining up. They simply didn’t live in my neck of the woods, literally. But I liked these guys. Boudreaux was cool, like Dubois, although he talked a lot less. He was tall, and had apparently had been offered a full ride to practically any college of his choice on an athletic scholarship. Then some injury changed his life forever. His dream of career in professional sports was over, so he was forced to find something else. This was his “Plan B.”

 Boudreaux towered over the rest of us, and at the opposite end of the spectrum, both physically and in every other way, was a kid called Kaz. His real last name was Kazmirzak, but nobody wanted to say that, so we just called him “Kaz.” He liked it. He felt cool because he had a nickname.

He needed all the help he could get to feel cool. Kaz was a short white kid who wore glasses and didn’t like sports. He was a nerd, and I wondered what he was doing in the Army at all. As it turns out, he was not only into computers but also into chemistry, and he liked, in his words, “blowing things up.” He hated the physically rigors of BASIC (Didn’t we all?), but figured the Army would have career opportunities for someone with his particular interests and his talents.

Kaz was kind of cool, in his own way. He had to be at least 18, but he looked about 14. In a way, I kind of admired him. I mean, it took balls for somebody who looked that young and weak to join the one group where he was guaranteed to get yelled at and get his ass kicked.

Like me, he listened to Dubois without saying much. He simply had nothing to add, no experiences of his own to relate. Also like me, I could see the momentary confusion on his face as he deciphered Dubois’ lingo.

Dubois was probably fully of shit half the time, but who cared? He was fun to be around. I don’t know how many times he had “gotten monkey with the hotties,” but one thing I knew was that he wasn’t a virgin. I couldn’t say the same for Kaz. In fact, the very word seemed to be written on his face.

There was one guy in the unit who was more religious than me. His name was name was Paco. He was a Hispanic guy from Los Angeles. “Paco” is the Spanish name for Frank, which is kind of funny. I mean, I get how “Pedro” is the Spanish version of “Peter,” and “Marco” is “Mark” and all that, but how they get “Paco” out of “Frank”, I don’t know.

Paco was a short guy, shorter than Kaz, but don’t let that fool you. He was thick, and could seriously kick some ass. He had been in a gang, and he had a massive, intricate tattoo of “XIV” inked across his shoulder blades. At first, I was afraid to ask what it meant, but Paco explained, with neither pride nor shame. It was the Roman numeral for “14”, which represented the gang he’d been in. I didn’t feel embarrassed for not knowing. I’m from small town America. What did I know about gangs? All we get back home are a few whacked out anti-government militias. Nobody threatens anybody else with a gun where I’m from, because everyone has one.