All that was left was a faint scar. Even with the advancements in medical technology and with the addition of magic, the occasional twist of the chest sent a thundering pain through his body.
Gently moving around a small table, Mikey picked up his head to the sound of a bell being jingled by the opening of a door. “Someone there?” He raised his voice as he turned his back to the door to hastily put away the cloth, he was using to clean the table next to him.
“What, you don’t remember me?” It was a man’s voice, gentle yet firm. Turning around to meet the visitor, Mikey felt a small smile grow on his face. The visitor adjusted his blazer letting him catch a clear view of the holstered pistol on his right hip and the police badge that was tucked away inside the suit jacket.
Mikey recognized the man. He was an officer from the government that had been keeping track of his case since his trip to Spain over a year ago. “If I said I don’t, would you get offended.” The sly smile that fought to grow across his face didn’t go unnoticed by the officer who stared at him unamused.
“Are you bullshitting me?” He asked.
Letting out a laugh, Mikey wandered behind the bar to his right, “Of course I am Allen! Here’ let me get you a drink.”
Cracking up at the store owner, the officer moved to take a seat. “Water please.”
Grabbing a clear glass, the owner took a nearby pitcher and poured iced water into the cup before handing it out. “Thanks,” the man said as he took the glass and drank it down in a single motion. Sparing a glance outside the windows to the café, Mikey took note that it was unusually warm despite it being winter in Texas. Pouring himself his own glass, Mikey took a swig before remembering that a uniformed officer had entered his café.
“So, you haven’t been around in a few months, what gives the sudden visit?”
“Well unfortunately I’m in uniform, so business is why I’m here,” Allen let out a short sigh as he brough out his phone. “I received a call the other day from a friend I have over in the NSA, and suddenly they’re talking about the terrorist attack that happened in Valencia. If possible—though I know we already have the records—can you provide a testimony of what happened last year?”
Mikey frowned.
“Well—what happened was horrible. I was meeting an old friend of mine that day and just shortly after I met him, around twenty minutes, there’s this truck that arrived that had a bunch of gunmen. Shortly after they open the back and start firing on everyone in sight. Only a couple of local cops were able to stop it.”
“The group that claims responsibility—we in the intel community call them the MFR, the Magicians for Revolution movement, an organization that has some roots with pro-communist movements in western Europe. Your old pal, Alexander Maine, we have reason to believe he was a target since he had connections to people that worked in DARPA and his former affiliation with the Submarine Force.”
“And why are you telling me this? I find it hard to believe that after getting shot I would have any more involvement in this outside of informing law enforcement about the attack. Hell, I had a hard of enough of a time trying to get back home since the embassy didn’t want to let me leave the premises.”
“Maine is still in a coma, and the guys that he knows aren’t willing to cooperate with the investigation any more than they can. To put it bluntly the reason why I’m here is more of a chance for us to discover why this happened. You were a contractor under Maine, so at least in some capacity we want to hire you to help find us. Think of it being no different than a Private Investigator.” Allen examined Mikey’s reaction carefully.
“There’s a reason why I scrounged up all the cash I had to open this café, Allen. I can’t just up and leave, especially since my only employee is out of town for a month!” He exclaimed motioning to the space they were in. “Around 40 thousand to get this building and the associate licenses! Not many 21-year-olds can say that they’ve opened a successful business.”
A part of Mikey wanted to close the café, head back home, and happily slide back into his bed. He was already somewhat tired from the day’s work starting at an early 6:30 A.M. It was that morning that he had landed a deal with a local supplier to give his shop more cleaning supplies and additional kitchenware at a reduced price compared to his previous vendor he did business with. Though the logistics were difficult—something he had little experience in—they were able to come to a deal where a package would come monthly at a $150 starting price.
Allen was asking him to uproot his current life and get back to what he did best in the last three years of his life, hunt. Though this was different. Alexander had brought him into the life of treasure hunting and magical science, not espionage and spying. He was being asked to investigate a terrorist organization with little to no experience in counterterrorism or intelligence. The most he had to work with was nothing more than a talent to read between lines and know when someone was lying.
“What agency do you even work for anyways, FBI, Homeland Security?”
Allen chuckled, “US Marshalls.”
“Ah, you’re a cowboy.” It finally made sense why they had sicked this federal officer on him. The Department of Justice had gotten involved, and it was easier to use their own in-house resources rather than any outside agency.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Mikey finally smiled as he refilled his and Allen’s glass. At least I know who’s asking… A question popped into his mind as he set the full glass back onto the bar, “So, what would I get out of this?”
“I can’t offer anything on behalf of the Marshalls or the US Government. Beyond anything like a typical salary, medical insurance, and access to government facilities, I have a few friends that were looking into that siphon thing you told us about during the initial investigation,” he said calmly as he withdrew his phone scrolling to a photo he had saved. “Take a look at this: apparently there was a shipment from the Deep Ocean Corporation up to New York from Spain. The registry has it as a prototype device, perhaps the one you’ve been looking for.”
Mikey felt his eyes widen, “But let me guess, the job you’ll be having me do will take place elsewhere.”
“No, believe it or not, you’ll be in Jersey for this one.”
Mikey felt a small urge to punch the smirk from Allen’s face. “Alright—I’ll bite.” Giving into the Marshall’s request Mikey brought out his own phone and passed it over the bar. “Give me your phone number and the reservation information.” As the officer picked up the device, the door to the café jingled once more as a new guest entered the store.
“Ah—Welcome!” Mikey called out. He watched as a woman that looked to be about his age adjusted her long brown skirt, white turtleneck and sports coat. With a curious glance she looked around the empty space with slightly widened eyes. It was as if she expected this café to be bustling with business. Not saying a word, she looked back at Mikey as she silently walked, like a ghost, to the bar two seats down from Allen.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Mikey began as he swiped a new glass and poured her a cup of water. “Is there something I can get you started with?”
She brushed her long back hair behind her head and gently secured it in a loose bun letting Mikey clearly see her ocean blue eyes. “I’ve heard that this place has some good coffee. Is there anything you would recommend?” She asked with a soft and kind voice. Her eyes drifted from away from Mikey as she looked up at the chalkboards that were above the bar displaying everything that the café sold. “I think I’ll get some of the chocolate tarts with it too.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Alrighty then; a small plate of chocolate tarts, and the house special.” With a small smile he turned around and began to get to work.
Between getting the plate and coffee cup, he almost missed Allen leaving a five-dollar bill on the bar. The two men said a silent farewell as Allen slipped out of the shop walking slowly across the parking lot to his unmarked government car sitting at the far edge.
Reaching a small pot that was being kept warm, Mikey dislodged it from the warmer and slowly poured it into the ceramic cup. Sparing a momentary glance over his shoulder, he felt as the girl’s curious gaze pierced into his back. Her shinning blue eyes slightly narrowed, and she wore a slim smile on her face. Her legs kicked back and forth against the bar, the brush of her skirt’s fabric shuffling from the sudden movement.
“Here we are. Chocolate tarts and a house blend, Ms.?” Mikey blinked, he forgot to ask for her name.
“Emma Historia, but you can call me Emma!” She said happily taking the plate and cup. Instantly raising the coffee to her lips, she blew gently before downing a quarter of the piping hot liquid. Mikey once more stared at her in surprise. For a moment he thought that she had gone through a withdraw from coffee like a crack addict.
“No creamer or sugar?” He asked unsure on how to proceed with any conversation.
“Nope, I take my coffee as is.” She responded with a sly smile growing across her face.
Reaching to his left, Mikey brought out his own cup. “I guess that makes us alike.”
“You’re not saying that just to agree, are you?”
Hiding her smile behind the burgundy liquid, she watched as the owner poured himself his own drink. Free of charge of course.
“No not really. I was never a fan of sugar or creamers. Though there was this one time when I was a kid, had a pretty good creamer from Ireland.”
“Ah—so you were agreeing just to agree.”
Mikey raised an eyebrow, is she pulling my leg right now?
After receiving her fill of coffee, Emma lowered her cup onto the table. “Hey, are you a local here? I’m kind of new to the area.” She asked. Her eyes flickered between the name tag on the man’s apron and back to his face. She became interested as Michael raised an eyebrow. He raised his free left arm and scratched at his 5 O’clock shadow.
“Well, I guess I can say that.” He said confusing her, “You see I moved here a year ago and opened this shop. I’ve been trying to get around town, but I usually never make it past New Braunfels.”
Her eyes widened as he continued. What!? He looks younger than me…
“—You’d be better off asking about either this town or anywhere else on Earth. New York, Spain, Italy, Japan, Maylasia, Kuwait. I’ve had my fair bit of travelling except for this state. I do want to get around, maybe to Port Aransas, or if I’m feeling venturous the Padres.”
“I can’t imagine doing that, going to all those places.”
Looking away from the cup in his right hand, Mikey simply couldn’t help but stare at Emma as she watched her warped reflection in the blackened T.V. across the room. Before she could see herself clearly, the image of a commercial popped into life displaying the newest and greatest car from Toyota.
“I think I can understand what you mean…”
###
Kyle Alfonse did not expect to receive a special assignment after he had flunked out from the CIA’s prestigious and rigorous Special Activities Division selection. Neither did he expect that he would be transferred into a supporting branch to the unit. There were many things he expected when being involved with such an organization: Counterterrorism, hostage rescue, sabotage, assassinations, intelligence gathering. All were advertised for officers within the branch.
The last place he expected to be was in a shipyard preparing to board a nuclear-powered submarine.
Between the uniformed submariners in their navy blue and khaki 2-piece coveralls, or 2POCs, he slowly walked down the long and steep walkway that led him to what was called “The Lonely Pier”. It was a placed known by the sailors in Washington where either the most broken or most successful boats were moored.
The vessel he was to board was the infamous USS Interceptor, a SSGN that held 26 missile tubes each holding 7 Block-VIII Tomahawk Land Attack Cruise Missiles each. The 182 hypersonic missiles that were developed were being utilized for a new counter terrorism operation that drew forces into a joint task force under USSOCOM’s jurisdiction. He was here to provide observations and report on new tactics that the CIA was looking to utilize in the future. The most action he was expecting to get was nothing more than watching as the submariners worked during their next underway.
“Hey, you alright?”
Blinking, Kyle adjusted to the synthetic lights within the forward compartment of the submarine. He had found himself on crew’s mess five hours after he began to check in to the command. Across from the table he was sitting at, a young man stood above him. His nametape read JACKSON DILLINGER. COMMS DIVISION.
“Yeah—just zoned out for a moment…” His eyes scanned over the blank rank tab next to the nametape.
“That happens a lot. You’ll get bored underway, God knows how many times it happened to me on my first patrol,” the submariner said as he extended a hand to the support officer. “I’m Dillinger. I’m a Radioman on this boat.”
“Kyle Alfonse, but you can call me Kyle.”
“I knew things were different on a special projects boat, but I didn’t expect them to send someone from the CIA here.”
“Is it that odd?” Kyle asked curiously.
“Maybe. We had our fair share of SEALs swing by, and God knows enough guys from the actual special project’s unit give us some news toys to try out. Hell, those numb nuts gave an upgrade to sonar just last refit.”
“Didn’t you all just get out of dry-dock? This is the last refit before Patrol 10.”
Watching as the radioman’s eyes widened and his jaw go slack, Kyle felt that he had said something he wasn’t supposed to know. It was basic information, enough to get him started on the submarine to get him acquainted with the crew, but Dillinger’s sudden reaction gave him doubt.
“Kyle, what’s your clearance?”
“In military language; TS/SCI, and up to Echo access.”
“No shit! That’s the same clearance my Chief has!”
“Yeah, but I haven’t been read in yet. So, it’s not like I can get into anything.”
“True, I don’t think we’ll give you codes to anything except to access Radio and NAV-Center.”
Nodding his head, Kyle stood up and slid out of the narrow seat. His bulky and tall figure made him a giant compared to Dillinger and the few men that occupied crew’s mess. Silent eyes watched his every movement as he wandered to the drink dispenser to get another fill of “bug juice”. Returning to his seat, Kyle didn’t pay any attention to the submarines as they talked amongst themselves.
“So, when do we get underway?”
“It’ll be soon. I’d say within a couple of weeks.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow.
“Not at liberty to say Dillinger?” He studied the radioman’s reaction.
“Pretty much.” Dillinger was used to knowing operational data up to the highest classification aboard. He may have been 19, but there wasn’t much that would make him spill any information.
“Yeah. Tis the trade.”
Reaching into his leather jacket inside pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of paper. Untwirling it with a single hand, Kyle looked over his check-in sheet he had received from the ship’s yeoman upon his arrival. He had managed to get most of what he needed. Naturally, he couldn’t enter the engine room, so any check ins that were assigned to a nuclear rate was off the table until he could talk to the boat’s Doc.
“Say, want to know something I can tell you?”
“I’m listening.” Kyle said not removing his eyes from the paper.
“We’ll be testing out some new equipment from DARPA. They say it has to do with our capability to transmit messages off hull.”
“Ah, so it’s something for Radio.”
“I’m not sure personally, but our systems definitely interface with whatever they’re giving us.”
Kyle let out a curious hum as he finally set down the paper. He was assigned here to observe possible strike operations, but there was little in his orders that said it had to be solely focused on launch procedures and effectiveness. It made sense why he was given the clearance he was by COMSUBPAC. If the Navy—in this case the submarine force—were to cooperate with ground forces, some of them being SAC, then they would need to be able to communicate with the boat before the launched their TLAMs into an area of operations.
From the last report he had, the Interceptor had been the only boat in the last 100 years to actively engage targets and gain confirmed kills. Their role in the recapturing of the capital of Pakistan, Islamabad, was paramount to the fragile success of Operation Silver Strike.
If there was any boat that had a crew capable of the impossible, it was the crew that completed the mission, Blue Crew of the Interceptor.
A click sounded above the men in Crew’s Mess. Instantly following silent, Kyle almost jumped as an announcement was made on the 1MC.
“Good morning crew of the Interceptor, this is your friendly neighborhood Chief of the Boat. So, we’re about to be finished with our last inspections, and soon within the week we will be conducting all pre-underway checks. Take the time now to square away your divisional spaces and prepare Rig for Dive. Just to make sure, if any of you have any outstanding personal issues, make sure to inform your chief and it will be routed up to me and the XO. This is the time for war, 9-1-8!”
““Kill em’ all!”” The crew members boomed.