Time: Short Stories in the Jack Randall World Read online

  “Feel your fingers?”

  Jack wiggled them. “They hurt.”

  “You’re okay.”

  Will sliced the Ranger’s pants open and, ignoring the kid’s screams, planted his knee hard over the artery before adjusting the tourniquet above the wound. Jack let go and grabbed his rifle. He crawled to the doorway. The Rangers had moved back to the corner building. Dismissing the pain in his arm, he shot at moving shapes through the cloud of dust. A bird roared overhead and hosed the street with its mini-guns. Jack used the lull to try to get some of the blood off his hands. He rubbed them in the dirt before wiping them on his pants. The blood came off in thick smears of red mud.

  Will told the young soldier, “Shut up, will ya? You’re fine.”

  Jack asked, “What do you say, Will?”

  “He’s okay for now but he needs to be extracted.”

  “We can load him up when the convoy gets here.”

  “The convoy returned to base.”

  “What?”

  “They got all shot up trying to find us. We’re on our own for a while.”

  “Shit . . . we gotta move.”

  “One building east and we’re inside the perimeter.”

  Will looked around the courtyard while he pulled supplies from his pack. There were no exits and only half a roof.

  “Outside or punch a wall?”

  Another RPG whooshed down the street and exploded a block away. It was followed by a hail of bullets. Going back out on the street was not a good idea.

  “Punch a wall? Hell, you can probably just push it over.”

  Will finished placing an IV in the Ranger’s arm before examining the walls again. Construction in Mogadishu consisted of weak bricks or stone held together with equally weak concrete, most of which was installed by amateurs. He looked at the sky to get his bearings before picking up a fallen stone. He put his considerable weight behind it and swung at the wall. A large dent and falling mortar revealed the wall’s weakness. He did it again, doubling the damage. He was picking up the rock for a third attempt when the wall flexed back out at him. He stepped back. The wall seemed to tear itself apart. Soon a sizable hole appeared that framed the smiling face of a sweaty Ranger.

  “You knocked?”

  “Open this wall up. I got a wounded man for you.”

  The Rangers redoubled their efforts and beat the wall apart with whatever they could find. Will checked on his patient before joining Jack in the doorway.

  “I think they’re in the building across the street,” Jack said.

  “Really? Bastards must have found a way in the back.”

  Rounds skipped off the doorway. The fire was getting more accurate—the hostiles had time to aim. Jack couldn’t see where it was coming from. He sent a burst at a group down the street before returning fire drove him back inside. A bird made a pass down the street parallel to theirs and the rockets kicked up a dust cloud. RPGs reached for it but it was like trying to shoot a fly out of the air with a pistol. Jack and Will looked for targets. The destruction of the courtyard wall continued.

  A door across the street slowly opened and a small hand grabbed the frame. A child’s hand. Jack and Will stared openmouthed. A small girl appeared in the doorway. She was no more than four and crying. She turned to look behind her at someone before stepping out into the street. Will fired at her feet to scare her back, but the girl closed her eyes and walked forward. After a few steps she slowly raised a hand and pointed a finger right at them. A hail of lead descended on the doorway and the concrete chipped to dust. Jack and Will flung themselves back.

  An RPG crashed into the doorway and Jack was knocked flat. His helmet was gone and his ears rang from the explosion. His right leg was on fire but his rifle was somehow still in his hands. He turned to see Will, his face now bloody, screaming something at him and pointing, but he couldn’t make it out. He followed the finger to see the girl in the street, scared numb but still pointing at them. Another explosion showered them with rocks. Will crawled on all fours, searching for his rifle in the debris. Jack was turning away when Will jerked and collapsed. He heard faint voices screaming as he spun. He added his own voice to the din and fired the rifle. He watched rounds stitch across the girl’s chest and her eyes went wide and held his until she collapsed onto the ground. Jack continued to shoot at the building she came from until the rifle ran dry. He felt hands grabbing his legs and struggled to fight, reaching for another magazine. The hands gripped tighter and he heard his name louder. His hearing slowly returned.

  “Jack!”

  He spun and saw Will down and bleeding in the dirt.

  “Jack!”

  He spun again and saw the girl’s body disappear as another RPG exploded against the outside wall.

  “Jack!”

  The Rangers tugged at his ankle, dragging him away from the door . . .

  “Jack!”

  Jack sat up with a yell. The room was black and silent. He was cold and covered in sweat. He frantically searched the bed for his rifle.

  “Jack?”

  Jack gaze fell on the figure of his wife. She was gently pulling on his ankle and repeating his name. He swallowed twice and slowed his breathing.

  “Are you okay?” Debra asked.

  Jack took a few more deep breaths. Your name is Jack Randall. You’re alive. You’re in Washington DC. You’re not in Somalia. There is no threat. He repeated it three times in his head before looking at his wife. He offered her a reassuring smile.

  “Yeah . . . I’m okay.”

  “Somalia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “At least a year.”

  “Do you need to call Will?”

  He considered the question. “What time is it?”

  “About four.”

  “It’s too early. Maybe later. I’ll just go in to work early. Get my mind busy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t want to wake up his kids.”

  Debra frowned. “Okay. Want me to make you some coffee?”

  “No, honey, I’m okay. Really. You go back to bed.”

  Jack bussed her cheek before heading for the shower.

  She watched him go. Once the door was shut she reached under the bed and pulled out his sidearm. She placed it back in the nightstand exactly where he kept it. She had done what they had advised her to do at the wives of veterans group. Remove any weapons. Stay out of range. Tap him on the ankle as they do in the army when they change shifts for guard duty. Call him by the name he used then. Don’t make him talk if he doesn’t want to. It had worked with the last nightmare and it worked now. She took little comfort from it.

  Jack never talked about his dreams and she never pressed him about them. Maybe someday when he was ready he would offer her a look into what haunted him. She was both curious and a little scared of that day coming. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  She got back into bed and listened to him in the shower, and pretended to be asleep when he emerged. He kissed her forehead before he left. She held her tears until he was gone.

  Jack stalked down the hallway to the kitchen and flipped on the lights. He examined the room closely before crossing it and mechanically performing the coffee making process. Once the machine was going he gazed at his hands. The tremors were still there. There was a cure, but it wasn't what he wanted to do. His hands shook. He went to the study. From the bottom drawer of his desk he pulled out a bottle of scotch and filled a rocks glass with a couple of fingers worth. In the family room he selected a chair by the window. The scotch and the falling snow helped calm his nerves. He had a big day planned, including a meeting tonight at Fort Mead. The little Somali girl had picked a bad night to visit. Sipping scotch, he watched the snow fall.

  An hour later the empty glass fell from his hand and clattered on the hardwood floor. It stirred him awake. The wall clock told him it was still too early for his wife to be up, but he was already late for work. W
ith a grumble he reached for the phone. It rang twice.

  “Sydney Lewis.”

  “Hey, Syd, it’s Jack. I’m going to be a little late.”

  “Everything all right?”

  Jack grimaced. She had witnessed the nightmare firsthand.

  “No . . . everything’s fine.”

  Eric reached for the beeping pager on his desk without taking his eyes off the computer screen. It fell silent before he could find the button. He held it and waited for it to sound again. He scrolled the program across the screen. Catching an error, he clicked the mouse and tapped a few keys. The pager beeped again, demanding his attention. He thumbed the button but the beeping continued. Annoyed, he pulled his eyes from the screen and glared at the offending device.

  The screen was blank. He realized it was the second pager on the desk. He scrambled to pick up the second before it started again. He thumbed the screen on.

  PARTY MOVED TO SIX. RSVP.

  “Shit.”

  He tapped out a quick reply before dropping the pager in his pocket and scraping items off the desk with a forearm and into his new helmet before impatiently logging off the computer. He grabbed his leather jacket and ran down the hall.

  Remembering that Jack was gone for the day he headed for Sydney’s office. He found her holding her head with both hands and staring at paperwork on her desk. He tapped on the doorframe.

  She waved him in.

  “Sorry to bug you, but I just got a page. I need to leave early.”

  “When?”

  “Well, right now actually.”

  “Oh, one of those pages?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go, I’ll see you Monday.” She waved him out.

  She watched him turn and bolt down the hallway and he was quickly out of sight. She shook her head before returning to the pile of paper.

  “Should have gone with him, Sydney,” she told herself.

  • • •

  Eric cleared security and ran through the parking garage to his bike. A new Ducati 1199 Panicale Superbike, he couldn’t help but run his eyes over its lines while he stuffed his pockets with items from the helmet. The bike was the only thing he had splurged on when he received his promotion, and the side job he had picked up had already paid it off. He had even taken some lessons on how to make it perform and now rode it every day that the weather permitted. The parking stickers on the gas tank had saved him from one ticket so far—he knew better than to push it. But to make it in time tonight he would need to use the bike’s capabilities.

  The engine fired up with a welcome roar and he revved it a few times before popping it in gear. The engine would be sufficiently warm by the time he hit the highway. Fort Mead was over an hour away by car, less than an hour by motorcycle.

  Weaving through traffic he made his way across town and onto the freeway entrance ramp. After merging with the freeway travelers he settled down into the seat, hunched over the gas tank and opened the throttle. He kept it as safe as he could, taking chances that endangered himself only, and tried not to spook his fellow motorists. He soon had a comfortable rhythm going and was no longer behind schedule. As he got farther from DC traffic thinned, prompting him to open the throttle. The earbuds put out an appropriate song. Before long he was nearing his exit. Once off the freeway, traffic thinned going in his direction. The base was shutting down for the weekend, but there was still the usual line at the entrance gate.

  Eric slowed the Ducati and weaved through the cars waiting to enter. He got a few rude gestures and two people honked their horns, but he ignored them as he pulled up to the guard. Eric’s rapid approach caused another, rifle in his hand, to step out of the kiosk. Eric pointed to the security sticker on the side of the gas tank. The guards relaxed, but only slightly. Eric took off his helmet before they ordered him to.

  “Sorry, guys. I’m late for an important one.”

  The guard shook his head, having seen it before, and held out his hand.

  “Badge.”

  Eric reached inside his shirt and grabbed the chains. He pulled them both over his head before selecting his NSA pass and handing it over. The guard swiped it through his scanner. He eyeballed the other badge hanging from Eric’s gloved hand. The letters FBI were prominent.

  Eric offered a shrug to the guard’s raised eyebrow. “I get around.”

  “I guess so.”

  The machine beeped and the guard compared the picture on the screen to the grinning face of the motorcyclist in front of him. Satisfied that they matched, he waved him through.

  “You’re clear, Mr. Williams. Just keep your speed down. No mission at all if you never get there.”

  “Will do.”

  He quickly returned the badges around his neck and replaced the helmet. With a quick rev of the engine he was off.

  He navigated the base from memory, which was required as most of the buildings had no signs proclaiming what they were used for. That was the mindset of the National Security Agency. Known among the military as No Such Agency, it was home to America’s secrets and the people who guarded them.

  The building he pulled up to was new, a solid structure of steel and concrete with few windows. It was joined by a glass bridge to an identical twin. The twin had no outside entrances and a rather serious looking fence around it. A pair of guards teamed with dogs worked the perimeter. It reminded Eric of a small prison.

  He parked the Ducati in a spot next to a similar bike and shut it off. The engine snapped and popped as it cooled, a testament to the workout he had subjected it to. He hung the helmet on the handlebar and proceeded to empty his pockets into it. Everything went in: his wallet, watch, pagers, iPod, and cell phone. Even his sidearm. He doffed his expensive sunglasses and they went in as well. He mentally searched his body for any metal and he frisked himself with his hands. He found a pen in his breast pocket and a stray nickel in his pants. They landed in the helmet as well. He grabbed the helmet by the strap, hung his badge outside his clothes, and entered the building.

  He had barely cleared the door when he was met by two guards. They noted the badge and gestured to the thick glass window off to the right. A sturdy woman frowned at him from behind the glass. It was like walking up to the drive-thru at a bank. He fed the helmet into an open drawer.

  “My sidearm’s in the helmet. Holstered, still loaded.”

  The woman nodded as if it happened all the time. She located the gun and expertly cleared it before placing everything in a numbered bag. She handed him an old-fashioned paper claim ticket and he was done.

  The guards swiped his badge again and waved him through the metal detector. He made it through without it complaining. Despite the machine’s approval, he still submitted to a pat down by one of the guards.

  “Am I last, Dave?” Eric asked.

  Dave finished his pat down before replying. “You’re not first. Better get a move on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good luck.”

  Eric hustled down the hallway to the stairs. He reached the third floor and sweat on his back forced him to shed the leather jacket, but he held on to it as he knew he’d need it once he got in. He had to swipe his badge and pass a palm scanner before getting a nod from another guard at the bridge entrance. Cameras followed his every move until he made it across. He ducked through two more sets of doors.

  They called it the Chamber and it was the size of a high school gymnasium. He hurried down the metal stairs to the smooth concrete floor. The real Chamber was a room within a room that floated on a cushion of air and Eric felt the slight give in the floor as he stepped up onto the platform in front of its lone door. The only outside contact the Chamber had was a series of power and broadband connections. Each of which had a person assigned to it and a large indicator light. The sweat on Eric’s back turned ice cold. Whether it was due to the ambient temperature of 66 degrees, or the excitement of what he was about to do, he couldn’t decide. In the dim light he nodded to a few people he didn’t know and head
ed for those he did. They sat at a cluster of computer terminals, each of them lit by a single lamp. Most of them were concentrating on the screens in front of them to the point that his arrival went unnoticed. He sat in the only empty seat.

  A young woman with Middle-Eastern features sitting next to him made a show of looking at her bare wrist before commenting in his direction. “Late again, part-time.”

  “Mom made me finish my peas before I could go,” Eric shot back as he donned his headset.

  “You’re okay. We’ve got about twenty minutes or so. You ready?”

  “Any changes?”

  “None since the last run-through.”

  “Then I guess I’m ready. Why did they move it up?”

  “No idea.”

  Eric logged into the terminal and it came to life. He glanced around the room and noted that he was indeed the last to arrive. But his commute was the longest, so that wasn’t unusual. The wall of screens was only half alive. One of them was scrolling computer code at a rapid rate and another showed the status of three satellite links. He also noted a few men wearing suits standing in the back of the room. It was too dark to make them out, but next to them was General Tillman, the unit commander.

  Eric grabbed a sticky note and scribbled a question before handing it to Kim. Everything they said in the room was recorded, so they often resorted to note passing to have a private conversation.

  WHOZ THE SUITS?

  DUNNO

  D&P SHOW?

  PRBLY

  Eric watched as the men were escorted into the viewing room. There the commander and a few others could watch the attack behind the soundproof one-way glass without interfering with the group of soldiers involved. Eric put them out of mind.

  He tapped a few keys and the program he had written over the last few weeks popped up on the screen. He ran it through another self-check before pulling up the actual code and checking it against the satellite data on the big wall screen. Looking for any changes he may have to make due to the change in the attack time, he determined he was still within the limits he had established. The room faded into the background as he became engrossed in the steps he would take.