“I’m sure you could do better if we didn’t keep you busy blowing shit up.”
Tamara laughs, and waves True out the door. “Go on. I’ll do my research and I’ll make sure we’ve got an inventory on hand.”
Requisite Operations is situated on a thirty-acre campus hidden by a screen of trees and guarded by a tall chain-link fence. Besides the Robotics Center, it includes indoor and outdoor shooting ranges, running trails, climbing walls, a track, a gym, a weight room, an urban-combat training ground, and, of course, headquarters—a single-story building with a central lobby anchoring two long, curving wings.
True is returning to her office in the north wing, walking swiftly on a concrete path under lowering clouds, when her TINSL chimes an alert. Pronounced “tinsel,” the acronym stands for Team Integrated Speech Link—a featherweight adaptive earpiece with a delicate boom microphone. TINSLs are designed to be worn nearly continuously and can integrate with a spectrum of registered devices, or conference in a team setting.
A synthesized feminine voice follows the chime. It’s Ripley, True’s digital assistant. “Connor Delgado is calling,” Ripley says.
True smiles. “Take the call.” Another chime sounds, a different note on a musical scale, this one to acknowledge her request. “Hey, love,” she says.
Connor is twenty-one, in his last year of college, and living with his grandparents—True’s parents—at their home outside Washington DC while he goes to school. Connor talks animatedly, amusing True with his description of a visit from his sister, two years older and now Second Lieutenant Treasure Delgado. “She’s golden,” Connor concludes. “Grandpa couldn’t stop with the compliments and the good advice, and she couldn’t stop rolling her eyes. By the time she left, Grandpa had mapped out her entire career for her.”
True laughs. “He’s just grateful to finally have another officer in the family. At least one of us did it right.”
An army officer. In the opinion of True’s father, Colonel Colton Brighton, retired, that is the proper occupation for a Brighton, or for the descendants of a Brighton, his grandchildren being technically Delgados. For Colt Brighton, these things matter. Brightons have served in the United States Army—officer or enlisted—every generation since the American Revolution. Served and sometimes died.
A sharp edge intrudes on Connor’s voice as he says, “I don’t get it, Mom. Diego’s portrait is right up there on the wall when Grandpa tells his stories about the glory of combat.”
Memories are physical things. It’s been eight years since True’s oldest son was killed in action, but she still feels Diego’s absence as a powerful tide of shadow around her heart. “The old man remembers him, Connor. He remembers everyone he’s lost. It’s just how he handles it. He needs to know it means something.”
“Does it?” Connor asks.
True lets this question slide, though she wonders what future generations will think of past sacrifice when soldiers are no longer present on the battlefield but instead are operating mechanical avatars from secure posts thousands of miles away.
For Treasure and Connor, Diego’s death was a transformative event, though they responded in opposite ways. Treasure resolved to follow her older brother into military service, while Connor will always remain a civilian. “You’ve got your own path,” True likes to remind him. “You’re doing well, and we’re all proud of you.”
When Colt encouraged his grandson to attend college in the DC area, citing all the opportunities and offering him a place to stay, True knew—Connor knew—everyone knew the long-term goal was to persuade his grandson to take up the family profession. But Connor has fended off the pressure with the calm determination of an old soul.
Let the old man try to break Connor’s resolve. That’s True’s opinion. Colonel Colt Brighton will break himself first against that unyielding citadel—and he deserves it.
Rumors
Khalid Naim is in Ramadi. It’s 9 PM local time. He is leaning against his taxi cab, waiting with other drivers outside a crowded lecture hall where a political meeting is nearing its end, when his phone chimes in a tone that announces the arrival of a fading text.
Speaking in Arabic, he demands, “Meen?” Who?
The synthesized voice of his digital assistant answers through his TINSL. It’s a private voice only he can hear, and it speaks in American-accented English: “Chris Kobeck, Director of Military Operations and Training, Requisite Operations.”
Khalid’s excitement spikes. “Iqra,” he orders—Read it.
He is one of the few taxi drivers in the TEZ willing to transport passengers beyond Ramadi, through the ungoverned territories of the Tigris-Euphrates Zone. He is also a US Army veteran, working now as an independent intelligence contractor.
He listens eagerly as his digital assistant reads the content of the message: “I’ve got a short-term contract I want you to fill. Starts immediately. Stealth manhunt. We’re looking for a bad guy. Call me when you can.”
“Shit,” Khalid whispers, disappointed and a little angry to learn this is just another small job. He’s been talking with Chris about a permanent position, so he was hoping for more.
Still, it’s an opportunity.
He looks at the lecture hall. The door is still closed. It’ll probably be a few more minutes before the meeting ends. Time enough to talk to Chris, get more details on the assignment. He gets inside the cab, windows up for privacy, and puts a call through.
Chris picks up right away.
“Hey,” Khalid says, “you know I want to come home.”
“I know it, but we’ve got a task that we need to jump on right away. You ready to hear it?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“We want to hire you on a contract basis for a minimum of five days. You run your fares between towns and villages in the ungoverned territories just like normal, but on the way I want you to listen for rumors and gossip about the movements of warlords: who they are, where they are, how long they’ve been in residence. I’ll get you some stealthed data collection equipment. If you locate a potential target, you deploy it. No worries about picking it up again. It’s just gone.”
“Data goes direct to you?” Khalid asks.
“Correct. It’ll verify identities, let us know if we’ve found our target.”
Khalid will be one of three contractors searching the region. Chris will oversee their movements and do what he can to keep their paths from crossing.
He considers this and ponders the assignment’s potential danger. “You don’t want to tell me who you’re after?” he asks, bothered that Chris hasn’t entrusted him with a name.
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. But if we find him, I’m going to need your organizational skills for phase two.”
“Three of us are going to be out there looking. What if I’m not the one who finds him?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got the skills and the contacts we need.”
Still, Khalid hesitates. Something feels off. He reviews in his mind the bounties presently on offer. He is sure none are large enough to tempt a thriving company like Requisite Operations to risk a mission in the volatile TEZ. There is more to this.
“You’re not just going after a bounty, are you?” he asks. “Have you been hired to do a hostage rescue?”
Chris grunts. Not exactly a confirmation. “You in?” he asks.
Khalid is sure his performance on this assignment will have a direct impact on his employment prospects. He looks out at his fellow taxi drivers standing about, faces lit by phone screens or the embers of cigarettes. He’s spent two years in their company and he’s learned a hell of a lot, but it’s time to move on.