Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1 (3 page)

Rot lay in his bed with his head still
wrapped in gauze. The nurse had elevated him enough that he could
see the royal blue, semi-sheer draperies covering the window. They
were closed because the direct light reflecting on the stark white
walls sometimes hurt his eyes, an effect he was still suffering
from his head wound.

His thoughts were the same as they had been
from the first time he awoke in the hospital. They were of his last
mission. A mission, like so many of his other assignments, where he
was to take the life of an assigned target. In the past, it had
mattered little to him what motivated his superiors to send him to
do his work. He had simply followed orders. But his last mission
was different. His target was a well-known terrorist leader who was
suspected of committing some heinous crimes. Rot agreed, with just
the common knowledge of what this man had done, that he probably
deserved to die. But still, when the stand-down order had been
issued, Rot recalled feeling an almost overwhelming sense of
relief. Not because the man’s life had been spared. No, not that.
It was the fact that God had spared
him
from being the
instrument that took the man’s life from him.

“Hey, somebody said the pus bucket in this
room wanted some ice cream.” Sack’s voice came rolling into the
room just ahead of his wheelchair. He was balancing two bowls of
what appeared to be either chocolate chip or cookies ‘n cream on
his lap, pushing the chair forward with his hands.

“What? They didn't have Neapolitan? Variety
is the spice of life, my friend.”

Sack’s expression hardened as he stopped by
the bed and regarded Rot.

“What? You gonna tell me you love me?”

“Okay, Rot. Tell me what you remember,” Sack
stated flatly as he handed one of the bowls to his friend.

Finally
. “I remember everything up to
when the choppers came in.”

“That's it?”

Rot thought about it for a minute. Images of
the helicopter on the ground in front of him flashed through his
mind. “Did the choppers crash?”

“One of 'em went down.”

Rot sat his bowl aside and folded his arms
across his chest. “Are you gonna tell me or—”

“It got hit in the rotor by an RPG.”

“Did the crew—?”

“They made it. The rag heads only hit it
hard enough to knock it down, and it only dropped about fifteen
feet. The co-pilot got his ankle broke and a couple of guys got
shot up, but nothin' serious.”

Rot picked up the bowl and took a spoonful
of ice cream. Chocolate chip. “Go on.”

Sack looked down at his legs. “Right after
that, I got my legs shot out from under my ass.” Suddenly, the big
man’s eyes went wide and he cupped a hand over his mouth in mock
embarrassment. “Did I just say a bad word?”

“Get stuffed!” Rot laughed, and then
gingerly laid his head back on the pillow. He looked at the ceiling
in frustration. “Could you, I don't know, maybe tell me the parts I
don't already know?”

Sack only smiled.

“What?” Rot shouted.

“You, man.”

“What do ya mean, me?”

Sack sampled another spoonful and winked as
he swallowed. “I mean you saved the friggin' day. That's what I
mean.”

“Huh?” Rot mumbled through the ice cream in
his mouth.

The big man slapped the bed, hard. “I
thought you wuz wussin' out on me, man. I thought we were goners
'cause you found
religion
.”

Rot screwed up his face in confusion. “Are
you gonna start makin' sense anytime soon?”

Sack gave him a knowing look. “Got baptized,
huh? Got all warm and fuzzy with the man upstairs, huh? You had me
fooled, brother. I thought you wuz lost. You had me thinkin' I was
a dead man in the desert 'cause you couldn't do yer job.”

A picture was starting to form in Rot’s
mind, a picture he wasn't sure he wanted to see.

“After the bird went down, those desert rats
came scurrying out of their holes from everywhere. All around us.”
Sack’s description was animated. “There must've been fifty or sixty
of 'em. They shot off three or four more RPGs and I think I heard a
heavy machine gun open up. Now, I don't know how they took the
chopper down 'cause they couldn't hit the left cheek of my
grandmother's—”

“Mule?” Rot interrupted.

Sack cleared his throat. “Anyway, I wuz down
and one of the choppers wuz down but the other one worked just
fine. Them mini-guns wuz just a hummin'. They prob'ly waxed twenty
of the camel jockeys in the first two minutes. Dug 'em right outta
the rocks. The next thing I knew, there you were.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. You wuz standin' over me and the
hajjis wuz comin' in. Ya took 'em one, sometimes two, at a
time.”

“I took 'em?” Rot asked skeptically.

“You emptied every weapon ya had. Toward the
end, you wuz usin' just your bare hands. Nobody could believe the
sand rats committed like they did, but the Stalker’s terp said they
kept hollerin' 'bout takin' us hostage. Imagine that? You an' me,
guests of Ali Baba himself.” Sack shook his head. “You beat those
Pakkis down, man. Killed nine of 'em that I counted before the rest
ran off.” Sack shook his head again and smiled. “You really shook
the sh—” He caught himself. “You saved my life, brother. Probably
the lives of that Black Hawk crew, too.”

Rot gave Sack a doubtful look. “C'mon.”

Sack just stared back.

Rot smiled. “How could I do all that and not
remember any of it?”

“Training, brother. It's all about training,
skill, and desire.”

Rot's smile faded. He could see flashes of
images but he couldn't remember doing any of the things that Sack
described.

“There's more,” Sack said gravely.

“What?”

“The chopper pilot.” Sack made a distasteful
face. “I guess he's the sentimental type.”

“Oh, please.”

“He's puttin' ya in for a commendation.
After all the interviews wuz done, they gave ya credit for killin'
eleven of the turban heads. I still say it was nine, but who am I
to argue?”

Rot's arms dropped to his sides, nearly
tipping the bowl over in his lap. SEALs weren't in it for the
money, the glory, or bragging rights. They were in it for love of
country and the brotherhood shared among teammates. Medal winners
were regarded as show boaters unless they were awarded
posthumously. But more than that, Rot was developing a
conscience.

“What can I tell ya? He's an Army puke.”
Sack offered a half smile. “They’re talkin' Silver Star. Maybe even
the Navy Cross.”

Rot hung his head. “Oh, no.”

Sack pushed himself a bit closer. “No good
deed goes unpunished, brother.”

Rot set the bowl down again on the table
next to the bed as he reflected on their mission. He was still
having a hard time taking it all in. An image of his wife drifted
in, a welcome interruption. He remembered a discussion that he and
Carol had had after his baptism, before they left Japan. She was
aware of what he did on his deployments. She knew he couldn't
discuss details with her, so she did her best to offer him some
encouragement.

“Rob,” she had said softly, “if God doesn't
want you to kill, then it won't happen, regardless of your orders.”
Her head had then leaned softly on his chest. “But just remember,
David killed Goliath and many other men in the name of the Lord.”
Suddenly, he was thankful that he had no memory of the event.

Sighing, he picked up the bowl and took
another spoonful.

Why did I have to kill again?

HIS UNIFORM WAS
khaki and smartly
pressed, his hands were held loosely at the small of his back, and
his burden was weighing heavily upon his soul. Captain Bernard
Walsh strolled through the hallways of the world's largest
building, the Pentagon. The fifty-year-old was small-framed but
sturdy and slight in stature, standing only five foot six. He had
been small for his age when he enlisted in the Navy at eighteen,
and the other recruits had spared no expense to make sure he knew
he was the runt of the litter. But it was his quiet personality and
even temperament that had deceived them all into believing he was
weak.

He was raised on a dairy farm in Cochran,
Georgia. His mother had died as he was being born. His father, a
Methodist minister, had little money to purchase modern equipment,
so Benny and his three older brothers had worked that farm, and
worked it hard. While growing up, he had also been consumed with an
insatiable thirst for knowledge. He read anything he could get his
hands on. The combination of study and the long hours spent in the
fields prepared him well both physically and mentally so that what
he lacked in stature he more than made up for in stamina. While he
had been able to complete only those physical tasks required to
graduate from basic training, he outlasted the other men in any
test of endurance.

In his early years, shipmates had been both
confounded and amazed at his prowess concerning the opposite sex.
His features, no one could deny, were striking. Cleanly shaven
head, chiseled jaw line, and razor-sharp, gunmetal gray eyes that,
it was believed, could see through bulkheads. He could pierce his
adversaries through the heart, offer comfort to those close to him,
or disarm the most disagreeable of sorts with those eyes. But with
the ladies, it was the uniform that never failed him, and the
“whites” always worked best.

Benny thought of himself as an extroverted
introvert, being equally comfortable barking commands in combat
situations or standing back at dinner parties observing the people
around him while they hardly took notice of his presence. He had
the uncanny ability to accurately size up anyone he came in contact
with, and could do so in an instant. This fact was well known among
the upper echelons, and there was no doubt in Benny's mind that
this was the reason he had attained his current assignment.

The halls Benny strode through were brightly
lit, their gray floors polished to a high gloss. The walls had been
painted stark white and were dotted with maps detailing both the
interior and exterior of the building, placed there to assist
newcomers in finding their way throughout the massive structure.
There were paintings depicting various officers, battles, and
machines of war from different periods spanning the more than 225
years of American history. And there were highly disciplined,
heavily armed Marine guards whose intense stares, under different
circumstances, would have made passersby by more than a little
uncomfortable. Mounted in the ceiling at the center of every
intersection were inverted domes of smoked glass that housed
security devices of every type, monitoring the comings and goings
of everyone who had business within.

The halls themselves were alive with
activity. There were military personnel and civilians alike,
running to and fro. Junior officers diligently making their way
through the din to deliver important messages to their superiors.
Vendors of all kinds hauling goods to restaurants, dining halls,
snack bars, supply rooms, and janitor’s closets. And there was a
myriad of voices intently discussing, curtly instructing, and
heartily laughing all at once. Most were in motion; the few who
were stationary caused Benny to deviate slightly from his course
now and then. But he was at home in the commotion and easily tuned
it all out. His thoughts were focused on the moral dilemma of his
life.

He had taken the helm of his current
assignment two years prior, and he worked at it with the same zeal
he had displayed with every new command. But almost immediately, he
had found this duty to be among the most challenging of his career.
And time was running out.
I like my job
.
Build me
something that blows stuff up effectively and I'll recommend
it.
But this? This is what they're now calling weapons
development?

He regarded man’s manipulation of God's
creations as an abomination. He’d noticed that throughout modern
history people had used the argument that God gives scientists the
intelligence and ability to produce drugs and techniques that can
be used to improve quality of life. By that reckoning, he reasoned,
God does the manipulating. It was true that people as a whole were
being kept alive longer and longer. But as he continued his way
through the controlled chaos of the Pentagon, his thoughts
darkened.
U
nfortunately for some, far too long.

The situation at hand, however, went far
beyond blood pressure medicine or hip replacement surgery. From
what little he had been told about the project, Benny understood
that it involved some form of genetic engineering. Manipulating
life at a level that he believed belonged only to God. It had
befallen Benny to evaluate candidates and then offer up some guinea
pig for government scientists to play God with. And it only made
matters worse that he had been kept in the dark about the true
nature of the program.

The assignment had been completely
voluntary. He could have simply turned it down and let someone else
bear the responsibility. His career was winding down—twenty-eight
years in and two to go. Unless he made admiral, which seemed
unlikely. It would have been a simple thing for him to take on
another assignment and coast to retirement. But that was not
Benny’s way. As long as he had his hands in this project, he
thought maybe he could do some manipulating of his own. After all,
just like Benny, the chosen candidate would be a volunteer. This
put him in a position to select individuals that he felt sure would
choose not to participate. And in the back of his mind, he held out
hope that if enough time passed, funding for the experiment would
run out and that would be that.

But Margaret Kingsley, the incumbent senator
from Wyoming, chairperson of the Armed Services Committee, and a
shoe-in for reelection, was a rattlesnake of a woman. Once she sunk
her fangs into something, she didn't give up without a fight. And
Project Pine Tree was her baby.