The Remaining: Trust: A Novella

The Remaining: Trust

A Novella

D.J. Molles

www.orbitbooks.net

www.orbitshortfiction.com

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ONE

The biggest decision of Abe Darabie’s life came on a day that started warm and ended cool. October in Coronado was a trick of nature. During the day, the sun baked the sands along the coast but never seemed to have much effect on the cold Pacific. Then the sun would set, and the winds would gust along the beach, and the sand would begin to feel as cold as moondust.

The fact that they’d shipped them all to Naval Base Coronado told Abe all he needed to know about what was in store for them. He felt out of place in his ACUs. A stranger in a strange land. When he’d first arrived, he’d passed one of the SEAL instructors, a stout man wearing his dark cadre sweatshirt. The instructor had smiled and nodded, like he’d known something Abe didn’t.

Just before dawn on the day of that decision, when the sun was still just a red smudge being birthed on the eastern horizon, the sixty candidates for Project Hometown gathered in a classroom that smelled of humid must and salty sea air. White walls and white linoleum that had seen better days. Fluorescent lighting that seemed overly bright.

At the front of the class, a serious-looking man in khakis and a black polo handed out a single piece of paper to each of them as they entered. Written on it was a solid block of text, and at the bottom, a line marked
SIGNATURE
. When everyone had found their seats and settled into expectant silence, the man in the black polo read them the entire page in a clear, commanding voice.

Then he interpreted it for them.

“This is essentially a gag order.” He held it up. “If you sign this document, you are pledging to the United States Government, under every penalty you can possibly imagine, that you will never talk about Project Hometown. You won’t write about it. You won’t blog about it. You won’t e-mail people or post it on whatever social networking site you’re into. And you certainly won’t use it to pick up chicks in a bar.”

There was an uncomfortable laugh.

“This is a lifetime order,” the man in the black polo said. “That means from the moment you sign this piece of paper until the day you die. No communication whatsoever with anyone not directly involved in Project Hometown, about anything we do, any of the training you’re about to receive, or anything about the mission itself.” The man tapped the piece of paper with his finger. “Does everybody understand what this document is asking them to promise?”

A bunch of
yes sir
s.

The man nodded. “Okay. Now fold it up and put it in your pocket.”

The classroom filled with the sounds of rustling papers and Velcro pocket flaps being opened and closed. The sixty of them did as they were told, stowing the paper and stealing confused and sometimes worried glances at each other.

The man in the black polo set the paper facedown on a table in front of him. “You men already know why you’re here, and you know what you’re capable of. So I’ll spare you the ‘hand-picked, best-of-the-best, cream-of-the-crop’ bullshit and get right down to brass tacks.” He planted his hands on his hips. “Twenty-four hours from now, there’s gonna be a bus in the parking lot outside this building. You’re either gonna be on the bus or you’re gonna be in this classroom. Which one is completely and totally up to you. If you are in this classroom tomorrow morning, then you’ll sign that paper I just read to you and find out what this whole Project Hometown thing is about. If you are on the bus, you’ll go back to whatever you were doing before, with our blessing and understanding that the life we’re asking you to live is not for everyone.”

The man’s eyes traveled the classroom, his face becoming very sober. “There’s a reason we’re giving you twenty-four hours to make this decision. You’ve got a chance to make history here, to be a part of something that’s never been done before. To be an integral piece of something that we hope will preserve the American way of life. But you’ll never get any credit for doing it, and your future is a life of hardship and solitude and secrecy. And in the end there is a chance it will consume your entire life, and be that way for a very, very long time. I wish I could explain what I mean by that, but I can’t.” He shook his head slowly. “I do not envy the position you now find yourselves in, but it’s just the way this one goes. It’s not a decision to be made lightly, and I would advise that you make it by yourselves, in the solitude of your individual dorm rooms, and not discussed by committee. This is a decision you can only make for yourselves.”

And then the man in the black polo shirt left the classroom.

They all filed out a moment later, back to their rooms. As they walked, they looked around at each other, catching eye contact and throwing it back with tiny shrugs and motions of doubt. Sequestered in their rooms, they spent the remainder of their time thinking and stewing. The rooms were small and the air conditioning felt overabundant. Meals were delivered to their rooms. Lunch was turkey sandwiches. Dinner, a dubious rendition of chicken Marsala.

Abe slept for a while. He did some pushups, then sit-ups with his feet stuffed beneath the corner of the bed. He sat, propped against the plain headboard, for a while and he considered everything he could possibly consider. But in the end, the closeness of the walls became a hindrance to him. He could not focus. He could not remember the things he had just thought.

At 0200 hours he left his room, feeling tweakish with the desire to be free. The cool October wind came off the Pacific, carrying with it the smell of all things ocean. He dipped back into his room long enough to grab a sweatshirt, and then he ran. Not from anything or toward anything. He just ran. It was not a jog, but a long, protracted sprint of nervous energy. He ran to get his heart rate up, to clear his mind in the thundering silence of his pulse, to cleanse himself with lactic acid.

He found himself on the beach, the shifting sands cool under his feet where they had been hot before. Down the coast, several hundred yards from him, he could see the strings of green lights bobbing in the surf, each a glow stick attached to a SEAL recruit pushing his way through BUD/S. When the wind kicked up, it carried the sounds of their misery to him.

He turned and ran the other way.

North, with the beach to his left.

He didn’t know how long he ran. He went until his feet and legs ached. Until each breath didn’t carry enough oxygen. Until his shoes were so full of sand that they abraded the skin off the balls of his feet. Then he stopped and he planted his hands on his hips and bent over, sucking the salty air out of the ocean wind.

It took him a moment to realize he was not alone.

He straightened up, still breathing hard, and he looked to his right where he could see the dark shape of someone standing there, feet planted where the wet sand met the dry. Abe recognized him from the classroom earlier. He was a little taller than Abe and leaner in the build, as taller men often are. He had intense, searching eyes that belied his otherwise relaxed manner of carrying himself. Abe had noticed him earlier simply for that reason. In a sea of type-A, aggressive personalities, it was rare to come across someone who didn’t puff his chest—literally or figuratively. A man who was comfortable enough with his abilities that he felt no need to show them to the world. And he could have passed himself off as any other profession but a soldier.

Except for the eyes. They gave him away.

The man quirked an eyebrow and spoke in a vaguely southern accent. “You lookin’ for me?”

Abe shook his head. “No. Just running.”

“’Cause you ran right to me.”

Abe just shook his head again, smiling as he sensed a bit of latent humor.

The man looked out at the black ocean. “For a second there I thought I was in trouble for leaving my room. Then I recognized you from the classroom. So I figured you’re just another poor sap trying to figure out what the fuck to do with the rest of his life.”

Abe snorted, then spat in the sand. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

The man extended his hand with a small smile. “Lee Harden, by the way.”

Abe took the man’s hand in his sweaty palm and shook it once. “Abe Darabie. Nice to meet you.” Abe dabbed a bit of sweat from his forehead and turned back in the direction he had come from. “Well, I’ll let you get back to thinking…”

“What do you think this is all about?” the man named Lee asked.