Amanda was still sitting in her desk when Mike Johnston, who really was a nice guy, rapped her desk lightly with his knuckles, as if to knock. “Hey, Amanda, sorry about your dad. Really.”
As Mike walked away, she found herself wondering why anyone else would care if she didn’t. As the class emptied out, Dagus was turning a digital camera in his hands as if it was a space rock. He stared at it a second and then placed it back on his desk. Standing, he closed the door and walked over to Amanda. He sat in Brianna’s chair next to her and leveled his dark-brown eyes on her.
“I’m so sorry.” He reached his hand forward on the desk toward her but avoided contact.
“Mister Dagus, there’s nothing to talk about. I hated my father with a passion. He was a worthless son of a bitch, and what I don’t get is why I should feel guilty about his death.”
“You shouldn’t, Amanda. But perhaps you should grieve. Maybe just open your mind a bit about this. I know you said he hasn’t been there for you. I remember the few times that you mentioned him it was always in a negative light. But, you know, you only die once.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that comment. You only die once. She was trying to understand what he was saying, but her mind had long ago shut like a vault door when it came to her father. She recalled that Jake had also said the same thing.
“This is really no big deal.”
“Okay. I understand. Just know that I’m a good listener if you need to talk to someone.”
She watched him for a moment as he seemed to consider something. He had wavy brown hair and a thin, handsome face. Many of her girlfriends were attracted to him in a “cool teacher” way, and she had to admit that she had her moments as well. But she loved Jake and always considered her pull toward Dagus a natural student-teacher thing.
“But be careful, Amanda. This may catch up with you when you least expect it to.”
She tried to consider this, but was unsure what he was saying. “What are you talking about?”
“The mind, Amanda. The mind.” He pointed at his temple and then began to emphasize with his hands again. “Try to imagine that you are the tip of a laser beam moving through the darkness penetrating untapped space. You have no idea what’s in front of you. In the same way, you have no idea how this is going to affect you one minute from now, an hour from now, or even a year from now. This may not be as inconsequential as you make it seem.”
Dagus lifted his head as the door to his classroom opened.
“Anyway, I think between Jake and me, you’ve got two men that you can talk to.”
“Hey, Mister Dagus,” Jake said.
“Hi, Jake.”
“Jake,” Amanda said, standing. She pecked him on the cheek and then turned to her teacher. “I’m okay. I can guarantee you that this deal will not affect me in any way a minute from now or even a year from now.”
CHAPTER 11
Sergeant Eversoll flipped open the blade of his Duane Dieter SpecOps knife and tossed it lazily into the dirt at his feet. He was sitting on an ammo crate outside of the Special Operations headquarters at the former Russian air base. Tall mountains loomed all around him, snow still capping their jagged peaks. He wore a black skullcap to keep his head warm and a black and gray Army physical training sweatsuit with running shoes.
Eversoll picked up the knife and tossed it into the ground again with a flip of the wrist. He repeated the process time and again. He thought about his many conversations with Colonel Garrett over the past eighteen months. A year and a half in and out of combat was enough to make two men relatives. They knew each other completely; therefore, they trusted one another completely.
Again with the knife. Eversoll remembered Colonel Garrett telling him about his brother, Matt. He had heard of Matt Garrett during the Ballantine attacks, as the nation referred to them now. Jacques Ballantine, a former Iraqi general, had unleashed a deadly series of attacks on the United States, and then followed up with the most surprising form of attack.
Freakin’ nuclear and chemical Predators on a damn Chinese merchant ship, like an aircraft carrier, Eversoll thought to himself. It was ingenious, and, for that reason, scary. Colonel Garrett told him that his brother had come to rescue him in a fishing hole in Canada after Ballantine had captured him. Matt Garrett was a CIA big shot now.
Maybe that’s my duty, Eversoll figured. Why can’t I seem to accept the fact that he’s dead? Is it denial?
“Sergeant Eversoll!”
The voice was from Command Sergeant Major Tom Palmen.
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Eversoll said, picking up his knife and standing.
Palmen was a large man with a completely shaved head. There appeared to be no neck connecting his head to his shoulders. The man spoke with a distinct Chicago accent, a physically fit John Candy.
“Pack your shit. You’ve got escort duty for some VIP. He specifically requested you.”
“But, Sergeant Major…”
“No buts, Eversoll, this is your mission.”
Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Eversoll appeared back at the headquarters in his army combat uniform, pistol strapped to his leg and Humvee keys in his hand.
“Where’s your M4?” Palmen barked. “And lose the keys; you’re not driving.”
Eversoll was confused. “M4’s in the arms room, Sergeant Major.”
“Go grab it. And pick up those two radios over there on your way back. Oh yeah, and make sure you’ve got a ruck packed for at least forty-eight hours.”
Ten minutes later, Sergeant Eversoll returned. He popped his full rucksack off his shoulder and quickly stuffed the two satellite radios in its special compartments. He stood and watched across the room as Palmen, Major General Rampert and a third man, dressed in civilian clothes, stared at the large map on the wall. Rampert was pointing and talking.
Palmen looked over his shoulder and said, “Eversoll, get over here.”
Sergeant Eversoll laid his M4 carbine on his rucksack and walked across the room. As he neared the group, his eyes remained fixed on the civilian. He had seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t place him.
“And this is where we’ve been searching,” Rampert said, pointing at the location on the map of the gorge where Eversoll had spent two long days and nights.
“Well, I want to go right there,” the civilian said. The man pressed his finger on the map about two inches to the right and above the place where Rampert had just pointed.
Sergeant Eversoll looked at Rampert and then at the civilian.
“We’ve been down this road before, Matt.”
“And we’ll go down it again.”
Sergeant Major Palmen noticed Sergeant Eversoll standing behind them. He grabbed him by the shoulder. “Sergeant Eversoll, meet Assistant Director of the CIA Matthew Garrett.”
Matt shook Sergeant Eversoll’s hand and took measure of the young man, quickly surmising that he had served his brother well.
“Good to meet you, Sergeant.”
He turned to Rampert and said, “We need to talk in private.”
Rampert nodded, saying, “Follow me.”
They walked into a plywood paneled office with maps hanging all over the walls. Rampert sat behind his gray metal desk and Matt took a wooden chair opposite Rampert.