Whisper Page 5

  Everyone nodded.

  “You will link up with your Special Forces team in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, in one week. You’re first on the ground in Afghanistan twenty-four hours after that. Following your insertion, if you’re not all killed, we’re debating sending in another team to link with General Hajimullah outside Mazar-e-Sharif.

  “We can’t move in the south yet. Taliban positions are too entrenched. That’s their stronghold. It’s a Pashtun-controlled hellhole down there.” Williams sighed and folded his hands on the conference table. He looked down, for a moment.

  “Make no mistake, gentlemen. The Taliban, and al-Qaeda, will be ruthless. Anyone captured will most likely be tortured to death. The Taliban love to videotape their executions, so if you’re captured, your death will be recorded and broadcast. As part of this deployment, we’ve authorized the distribution of L-pills. If you are captured, and you believe you are about to be murdered, you will have the option to end your own life.”

  Kris heard Williams speak, but everything seemed to float by him, words like bubbles warbling in the air. He couldn’t process it all, not yet.

  “We here at CTC will do everything to support you. Anything you need, we will provide. The president will be receiving twice daily briefings on your activities. We’re all behind you, everyone. The entire nation. Good luck.”

  George commandeered Williams’s seventh-floor conference room as team space. He called everyone together for the first meeting, dumping a box of donuts and a takeout carton of coffee in the center of the table.

  Ryan interrupted him before the meeting began. “George, can I talk to you?” He jerked his head toward the corner.

  Kris plucked at one of the laptops, reading through the intel cables sent in from Islamabad, Tashkent, Dushanbe, and elsewhere. Anything and everything the agency could gather on the Taliban and the Shura Nazar. He was coordinating with Tashkent station while they met with Shura Nazar representatives and tried to secure permission from General Khan to allow them into their stronghold in the Panjshir Valley.

  He, and everyone else, could hear Ryan and George’s conversation.

  “Are you sure Caldera is right for this team?” Ryan crossed his arms, glancing over his shoulder. Kris pretended not to notice.

  “Clint personally picked him for the mission.” George sounded as enthusiastic about Kris as he would about going in for a root canal. “Clint says he’s good. He’s the best analyst on Afghanistan. He knows the political lay of the land, the culture. We need that to build this alliance. And he knows the languages.”

  Ryan scoffed. “He looks like a hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet. He won’t be able to handle the physical aspects of this mission.”

  George shrugged.

  “How is he going to be received in Afghanistan? We’re going to Afghanistan. The Taliban murders anyone they think might be gay. And we’re bringing him?”

  Kris felt everyone’s gaze slide to him. No one said a word. Everyone pretended they couldn’t hear Ryan and George.

  “Look, we need the language skills. He speaks Farsi and Dari. The other Dari speakers, all three of them in the agency, are going operational with the next teams. We need them on the front lines.”

  “But—”

  “Look, Ryan, we’re building alliances. Laying the groundwork. We’re staging. We’re not fighting. Clint believes in him, says he is the guy we need for building this alliance. Everything else… Well, Caldera has to figure out how to hold his own over there. At least until we get the ball rolling. Then we can send him home if we need to.”

  Ryan sighed, long and loud.

  Mortification singed Kris’s soul, burning him from the inside out. He couldn’t see the laptop screen anymore. Letters moved around in a haze, a fuzzy disconnect from reality. There was a fire building, that same flame he’d fanned throughout high school, throughout college, when people had told him no. He thought he’d banked that, turned the coals over on top of the rage and the hurt and the years and years of everyone telling him he wouldn’t measure up, he wasn’t good enough.

  “I graduated third in my class at The Farm.” Kris’s voice rang loud and clear through the conference room. He stared at George, and then at Ryan. “I did better than two Special Forces guys and three FBI agents.” He shrugged, going back to his cables. “In case that was important.”

  Silence.

  George cleared his throat. That was the end of his and Ryan’s huddle in the corner. He headed for the whiteboard at the head of the conference table. “We’ve got a lot of work to do and five days to do it in. What do we need to get to Afghanistan, and, more importantly, what do we need to stay alive while we’re there?”

  Weapons. They needed as many weapons as they could get. Handguns for every member of the team, long guns, ammunition as if they were going to war.

  Food. MREs, water purification kits. Iodine tablets.

  Computers. Lots of them. Field-grade laptops in indestructible bulletproof suitcases. Portable satellite dishes. They needed to be able to connect to both the CIA’s geosynchronous satellite network in high orbit and access the low-orbit network, the communications satellites that tracked across the sky, circling the globe every ninety minutes. In the mountains of Afghanistan, the low-orbit satellites would be almost useless, the signal cutting in and out. But they had to have a backup. They also needed to integrate into the military’s web of communication and observational satellites. Somehow, between the three systems, they’d have communication capability with the world outside Afghanistan. Hopefully.

  Derek announced he’d been reviewing the specs on the helo they were picking up in Tashkent. It needed servicing and an overhaul before it could make the flight into Afghanistan. They’d have to do that on the ground in Tashkent.

  “We’re still working on getting approval from the Shura Nazar so we can even enter Afghanistan under their official invitation. If we don’t get their cooperation, it will be a lot harder to stage in-country. We need their cooperation.” George circled Shura Nazar on the whiteboard three times. “Caldera—” He turned to Kris, sighing. “—that will be our job. Political affairs.”

  “So, Uzbekistan is playing ball with us, but do we have clearance to fly over Tajikistan airspace yet? It would be far better to insert directly over the border of Tajikistan into Shura Nazar territory.” Derek hunched over maps of the Uzbekistan-Tajikistan-Afghanistan border region. “Flying south from Tashkent and crossing the Uzbekistan border puts us right over Taliban territory. We’d have to fly over Taliban-held land for hundreds of miles until we get to the mountains and the Panjshir Valley. The Taliban have antiair weapons, right?”

  Kris nodded. “The US gave the mujahedeen in Afghanistan about four tons of Stinger antiair missiles when they were fighting the Soviets. They’re still around, all over the country. The Taliban seized most of them, so we can expect to be facing our own weaponry when we engage.”

  “Great.” Derek snorted. “US-made shoulder-fired rockets.”

  Jim tried to lighten the mood. “At least it’s tech from the eighties.”

  “A Stinger antiair missile is a Stinger antiair missile. It will shoot you out of the sky just as dead today as ten years ago—”

  “That’s enough.” George silenced Derek and Jim. Derek shook his head, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “The seventh floor—” The political power of the CIA. “—is working directly with the Uzbekistan government on allowing us access. Understandably, there is some resistance to the idea of allowing the US to use their nation as a launching pad for a CIA invasion force. If they keep stonewalling, the director will go to the president. Apparently, Russia has offered to twist some arms in their old Soviet enclaves for us.”

  “Russia is offering to help us?”

  George stared at Derek. “The Twin Towers are still smoldering. The entire world knows we are coming. Knows we’re going to react, violently. What countries are lining up to oppose us right now?”

  Der
ek’s lips thinned. He looked down.

  “What are our living conditions going to be like?” Ryan chewed on the end of a pen. “Are we talking camping outdoors? Living in caves? Will we be in mud huts? Are we going to have local food or will we be eating MREs the entire time we’re there? If so, how long until we can expect a supply drop? We can’t bring MREs for three months for twelve men. What are our exact conditions going to be?”

  “Right now, we have to assume we’re planning for bare essentials. Everything we will need, we have to bring with us. Everything,” George repeated.

  Kris breathed out slowly, flexing his fingers.

  “George, the weather is going to turn nasty very soon. The Taliban are hoping to bog us down in deep snows. Will we be staying in-country throughout the winter?” Ryan asked.

  “If it comes to that, yes.” George looked around the table, into each man’s eyes. “We’re going on this mission with no end date. Come winter, the road through the mountains will close, and any helo that tries to make the flight over the pass will ice up and fall out of the sky. So, we’d be wintering in Afghanistan. The military has promised they will air-drop supplies to us if and when we need them. The best estimates right now say that we will spend autumn and winter working up the Shura Nazar, and then there will be a spring offensive mounted against the Taliban. We’re going to move heaven and earth to do better than that.

  “But...” George frowned, his tone turning cautionary. “But we need to be ready for the worst. I got the seventh floor to authorize each of us two grand to buy personal supplies, and another four grand for the mission. When it comes in, we’re going shopping.”

  Two days later, the money arrived. George tossed each member of the team a folded envelope stuffed with cash. “Time to get our gear.”

  They rode together, piling into George’s SUV and heading to the nearest camping store. Kris sat squished between Jim and Derek, with Ryan riding shotgun and Phillip in the back. When they arrived, Phillip and Derek disappeared, scattering to the far corners. George, Ryan, and Jim huddled at the front of the store.

  “Kris, come over here.” Jim waved him into the group. “Let’s get what we need together.”

  They started in the clothing section, picking out cargo and tactical pants. Heavy snow gear for the winter. Layered shirts and zip-over fleece vests, fleece pullovers, and thick waterproof winter jackets. Wool hats and gloves, and leather overgloves.

  George, Ryan, and Jim grabbed the basic colors: black, blue, and white. Kris riffled through the racks, coming up with burgundy and forest green, cream and burnt umber turtlenecks and layers. When they reunited to head to footwear, George and Ryan gave his cart a long, long stare.

  “Well, no one will confuse your clothes.” Jim elbowed Kris, chuckling. “Leave it to you to be the fashionable one.”

  Kris pulled his lips into a smile. Bared his teeth. Inside, he was screaming.

  At the boot section, he saw Ryan nudge George and whisper in his ear, pointing first to Kris and then to the women’s boots. Some were knee high, somehow combining hiking and sex appeal. In a different time, different place, Kris would have bought them just to spite Ryan and George, and then worn them until they fell apart, rubbing their faces in their own joke.

  Afghanistan seemed the wrong place to rub someone’s face in a joke, though. He tried to ignore their snorts and plucked a pair of ridiculously expensive tactical all-weather boots from the wall. They were heinously ugly, but they promised to keep his feet dry and warm, even in a foot of snow.

  Phillip and Derek came back with tents and camp stoves, entrenching tools, compasses, tarps, camp twine, emergency field kits, water backpacks, day packs, and external frame rucks for everyone. The large rucks were wider than Kris was and came up to his chest. Empty, they were hard for him to hold. He felt Ryan’s eyes burning into him, felt the words hovering over his head: Caldera can’t make it. Look at him, he can’t even lift the empty backpack.

  He'd practice that night, practice marching around his tiny apartment, if he had to. Anything to prove Ryan wrong.

  Crates of weapons arrived, lining the hallways outside Williams’s conference room.

  Ryan popped them open as everyone watched. He passed out AK-47s and 9mm handguns, handing them one by one to each member of the team. “We’re using AKs because they’re everywhere in the third world, especially in Afghanistan. We can pick up ammo easier for the AKs, if we need it.”

  Ryan hesitated when he got to Kris. “Know how to use this?” He held out the rifle.

  Kris snatched it, spun the weapon muzzle-down, checked and cleared the chamber, and then disassembled the rifle, breaking down the stock and the barrel and laying everything on top of the crate. He kept his eyes on Ryan’s the whole time.

  Ryan smirked and passed him his handgun.

  Holsters and ammo pouches followed, along with cleaning kits. They would each have a web belt and a drop-thigh holster, and a chest sling for their rifles. The rest of the crates were filled with bullets.

  GPS units arrived that afternoon, along with the high-frequency encrypted radios for secured communications between the team once they were on the ground.

  “We need to get all this—” George gestured to the gear piling up in the conference room and up and down the hallways. Food, weapons, survival gear, computers, radios, and more. “—packed and ready for shipping out. Remember, we only have one helo to get into Afghanistan.”

  “And it’s not a magic helo,” Derek chimed in. “We have serious weight restrictions. Between twelve men and all this gear, we’re going to be scraping the mountaintops as it is.”

  “Well, Kris is light.” Jim winked at Kris. Everyone laughed.

  Everyone but Kris.

  They spent hours breaking everything down, repacking it into the smallest spaces possible. Kris worked with Phillip, repackaging the comms gear and the computers. They worked in silence while the rest of the team cracked jokes and laughed.

  It was almost midnight when they quit. George pulled them all together again, gathering them around the messy conference table. “We have two more days until we leave. Tomorrow, we’ll go over our mission step by step. The next day, we’ll stage everything for our departure and finalize our travel arrangements.” He sighed. “But tonight, and tomorrow morning, you all need to take some time to get your personal affairs in order. You’re going to be gone for at least six months, with no way to take care of things back home. Make sure your finances are in order. Your bills are set up to be paid. And...” He swallowed. “Everyone update your wills. Bring them in when they’re done. The CIA will hold on to them for you. You’ll get them back when you come home.” He nodded to them. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Take the morning to get your lives ready for this.”

  Eleven in the morning, and George was already up to some kind of bullshit. Kris could feel it, the moment he walked into their workspace.

  “Kris, follow me.”

  Kris clutched his cup of coffee and followed George out of their crammed conference room. They wove through the halls stuffed with crates until they got to George’s office. George beckoned him in and shut the door.

  Kris had exactly zero patience for what he knew was coming. His stomach clenched, and he wanted to throw up the latte he’d been drinking, fling the remnants at George’s face, topple his bookshelf and stomp on its files and folders. His fingernails scratched against his cardboard cup.

  George wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  He hadn’t gotten enough sleep for this bullshit. He’d cleaned his apartment until two in the morning, trying to put off George’s homework. At three thirty, he’d finally sat down at his laptop and typed seven words: Last Will & Testament of Kris Caldera.

  What the hell did he have to give away? He was twenty-three. He had four grand in his bank account and a shitty car he’d managed to save up for in his last year in college. He had a closet that would make any self-respecting gay man weep, and enough hair product to open a salon. He d
idn’t have stocks or bonds, investments or a retirement account. He was just a kid.

  But the CIA wanted his will, his last requests, and he was going off to someplace where, more than likely, what he typed would be the last anyone ever knew of him. Between their mission and the conditions on the ground, he would be lucky to survive. If it wasn’t the war, or the Taliban, then it would be a land mine. Hundreds of thousands had been buried across the country throughout the years of the Soviet invasion. And if it wasn’t the war, the Taliban, or a land mine, it would definitely be a traffic accident. Roads were a fantasy in Afghanistan. New vehicles hadn’t been imported since the Soviets pulled out.

  Mamá, he tried to write. His eyes blurred. I wanted to do good. I wanted to make a difference. God, how spectacularly he’d failed at that. How he’d failed, so indelibly, so enduringly. He would never be free of that failure. I love you to the ends of the earth, Mamá. Thank you for loving me, and never trying to make me feel bad about myself.

  They’d never spoken about him, about how obviously homosexual he was, especially in high school. His papi had shouted at her, loud enough to shake the walls of their apartment, screaming that his son was a sissy faggot and a fairy who jerked off to other boys. But his mamá had never said a word. Silence was, in a way, acceptance. Silence, and the way she’d still made him empanadas on Saturdays and lechon on Sundays, and had still wanted him to kiss her goodbye in the morning before school, before she left to clean office buildings in Lower Manhattan.

  She’d flown to Puerto Rico, leaving his papi when he was a freshman at George Washington. When they talked on the phone twice a year, she sounded happy. He never called his papi. There was no reason to. His memories of Papi stank like beer and too many cigarettes, and the soundtrack was always shouting. Drunk shouting, sober shouting, it didn’t matter.

  His happy memories were of his mamá, or of being a punk teenager in Manhattan in summertime. He’d had short shorts and a tank top, and his skinny arms had swung with as much attitude as he could put into them. How many summer days had he spent on the stoop with Mamá, listening to Spanish music and watching his old Dominican neighbor wash his ancient Plymouth with a hose? The neighborhood kids loved to splash and play in the runoff. Once, he’d been one of those little kids, stamping in puddles. In all of his memories, the Twin Towers stood like beacons, like fireworks, like screams that ripped backward and forward in time, reminders of his failure for the rest of his God-given days.