Departures
Dayton, USA
The truck jumped the curb and nearly shredded the lawn, jerking to a halt right in front of the driveway. The door flew open and a man threw himself out, adjusting his tie and running across the small field to the gates to the cemetery.
“Wait!” he called to the old man closing the doors. “Wait! Just a second!”
The groundskeeper turned stiffly, scratched his neck.
“Place is closed,” he said. “We open at ten.”
“Please,” said the man in the suit, catching his breath, “please, I just need a few minutes. It has to be today. Please.”
The groundskeeper checked his watch, shook his head.
“Last time I let someone in past hours, the tombstones got spray painted. Tagged, as they say. Got me in a big heap of trouble, you can imagine.”
“That won’t happen,” said the other man. “I promise. I’m not like that. I’m not here for that.”
“That’s what they’d all say, Mr…”
“Major. Major Freeman.”
The groundskeeper nodded.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Mexico. Afghanistan before that.”
“Tough spots. I was in the Marines myself. Back in ’05.”
“Iraq?”
“Yes sir,” nodded the old man.
“Tough times,” said Freeman.
“They’re all tough times. Listen. I’ve got to take a leak. Takes me a good ten minutes to do that. You think you can wrap it up in that window?”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
The old man patted his shoulder.
“No problem, Major. You did good.”
Freeman slid through the gate and turned on a pen light, making his way down the rows until he stopped at a tall white tombstone in a patch of flowers. He dusted off the front of the screen and it flickered to life, showing a radiant woman and a young boy sitting under a tree in the sunshine. The screen was browning, faded in spots. Freeman rubbed it with his sleeve, but it wouldn’t come off.
“Asha,” he said, then cleared his throat. He fixed his tie, his jacket, as if waiting for an interview. He took another breath, then tried again. “Asha,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. It’s… well, it’s been a long day today. I… oh, wait. Here, I brought you something.”
He carefully removed a small bouquet of flowers from his jacket, placed them on the grave. He stood back, nodded to himself.
“They’re dried out. Sat in the car too long.”
He nodded to the air.
“I guess you knew that. And I guess you’re mad. I went and let my duties come before my family again. Same old, same old. I’ll never learn, will I? I can hear you saying it.”
He rubbed his forehead, pushing back a breakdown long overdue.
“I’d give anything to hear you say it,” he said. “I’m not learning, I’m just… I’m treading water here, Asha. I’m don’t know what I’m doing without you.”
He knelt down, brushed some dirt away from the engraving on the front. Asha and Nicolas Freeman, died May 19, 2034. His finger paused at the base of the nine. Nicolas was five years old. Five.
“There was this guy today. Great guy. Dedicated. And he’s been working towards his… his dreams for so long. Longer than me, anyway. And today, his last day, it all got taken away. He’s got to come back another day. He’s got to put in on the line another time, and I can’t… I don’t know. I don’t know what I think.”
He got to his feet, clasped his hands, and closed his eyes.
“I’ve been asking myself: if I had it to do over again… if I could have said no that last time, said I was done, that I’d done my bit… would I do it any different? And I don’t know. I can’t imagine doing it any different, and I feel like that makes me a monster.”
He shook his head, took a step back.
“I don’t know. I want to take care of my family, you know. I failed once, but I can do better this time. And I wish there was something I could do for this guy. Save him that last trip. Because that last trip can be where it all falls down. I just…”
His phone rang. He exhaled, nodded to the grave, and stepped away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He answered the phone with a cracking voice.
“Hello?”
“Rook?” came a voice. Old and French.
“Lucet. You heard?”
“I did,” said Lucet. “What went wrong?”
“Tundra went wrong. Where did you find her?”
“She came recommended. Independent confirmations.”
“She seemed new to it. Complete disaster. If I’d had any sense, I’d have put her on point guard and let Elvis do the codes.”
“You had no way of knowing.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaving the gate and waving a thanks to the groundskeeper, who made his way over to close it up. Freeman got into the truck, closed the door, and left the lights off.
“What about Gossamer? Any word yet?”
“I do not know. I stayed at arm’s length from his people. If there were something to it, I am sure I would have heard.”
“This is going to get messy,” said Freeman.
“It already is messy. It got messy the second he stole that plane. I do not know if anyone can protect him anymore.”
“Never mind him, I’m worried about you.”
“You leave me to me. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course,” said Freeman. “What’s this I hear about Sri Lankan handlers for Indian drop zones? That’s a change, isn’t it?”
“The Indian handlers were arrested yesterday. Someone on the inside, working with police. We are investigating, but it will take time to find out where the leak came from. We need to move carefully on this.”
“I’m just wondering how this is going to change the game plan, now that we’re into typhoon season. There aren’t many good drop zones outside the Indian Ocean, so…”
The line went to static for a moment, and Freeman lost the start of the sentence. When it came back, Lucet was in mid-sentence…
“… ask about Tundra. I have heard from Kaso that she is in trouble, and is requesting assistance. I wanted your opinion, if it is safe to intervene.”
“Safe?” asked Freeman. “Or smart?”
“Same thing, I think.”
Freeman sighed, checked the rear view mirror, cricked his neck.
“If she’s really a vet, she shouldn’t be that bad. If she’s new, she’s not Tundra. We can’t take the risk. Leave her.”