“What other news channels do you get?” Hal hollered to Maggie at the end of the bar.
“Just this one. This TV don’t get news from the left.”
Henry laughed. Hal would have laughed too — any other day.
“That news report in Afghanistan…” Hal said to Henry. “I recognize it. Like I was there. Not just the village. I recognize the men too— the killed ISIS leaders.”
“What do you mean, ‘Like you were there?’” Henry asked. “There like Patton and the Carthaginians in a past life??”
“No. I’ve seen it before. Like I was there yesterday. The terrain, the village… The shape of the dwellings. I KNOW it. I’ve been there. And the men — I know their faces. Like a stranger you talk to at the post office or grocery store. You don’t get their name, but you know their face if you see them a day later.”
“What makes you think you were there?” Henry asked. “Dreams? Is that what you’re going on?”
“Dreams. Flashes of images. Detailed ones — like memories.”
“So, you fell asleep when the news was on and then you dreamt about it?”
“No. The timing doesn’t work. The attack happened last night. It was only reported today.”
“All those mud huts look the same,” Henry said. “And so do all the towel heads. You think you can tell them apart when they have scarves wrapped around their faces?”
Hal shook his head. He wasn’t convincing Henry.
“See this?” Hal cranes his jaw at an angle, showing Henry his neck and chin.
“What?”
“The line. It’s a strap line. From a Mich helmet. I could put one on now and it would line up perfectly.”
“I don’t see anything.”
Hal rose to catch his reflection in a mirrored Michelob sign on the wall. It was too dark to see the chin-strap line. “The lighting — you can’t see it in here. It’s not just the line… I have bruises on my body, I ache all over. I’m more tired than normal during the day. It doesn’t make any sense!” He paused, turning to Henry. “Am I going crazy??! Tell me I’m not cracking up.”
“There’s gotta’ be a reason for it,” Henry said. “You’re working long hours, stressed… Hell, maybe you got a concussion from that Kung Fu that you call exercise? Or maybe you really have PTSD. What do I know? Have you seen a doctor or the base shrink?”
Hal shook his head. “I don’t need a doctor. Shrink maybe — but I don’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo BS. Half the guys at Creech have PTSD because they’re drug addicts — it’s not from the job. If they did something instead of drugs to blow off steam, they wouldn’t need the shrinks.”
“What other choice do you have?” Henry asked. “Keep obsessing on it until you are crazy? Go to the head shrink. Or the doctor. It’s not like he’ll make it worse.”
Hal nodded. He couldn’t argue the logic.
Hal stayed at The Terminal until the game ended, making sure Uncle Hank got to his car and was okay to drive. Hal declined a lift home telling Henry he could use the walk home. He needed time to think.
The night air was cool and full of stars. The streets of Soaring Heights were silent. A pair of F-22 Raptors practiced touch and go’s on the runway nearby. Breaking up the calm of the night. People on the base were so used to aircraft taking off and landing around the clock they grew numb to the roar of the engines. Just like those who lived near railroad tracks, Hal thought.
Hal strolled down the middle of the street, devising a strategy of what he would tell the base shrink. None of it makes sense to me… How can I say it so a complete stranger will believe it? How do I phrase it so I don’t sound crazy?
Hal didn’t know where to start. When was the first symptom? What day? He couldn’t remember. The symptoms happened slowly over time. He should know when they started — the doctor would be sure to ask. Hal pictured the calendar in his mind’s eye and felt a sudden sting. He reached for his shoulder and then fell to his knees. Hal’s world went black.
A whip-like chord appeared out of nowhere. SNAPPING around his neck. His eyes flicked open with a horrifying thought—I’m under attack.
Hal’s mind switched gears to survival mode — calling upon his special forces training. He had to get the cord off of his neck. He knew he only had seconds. He dug his fingers deep into his neck, under the cord, creating a bridge to free his blood flow. Buying time. He felt the attacker’s forearms leaning onto his shoulders. A leverage point. Hal felt the attacker’s right knee pressing into this back. The concept of martial arts triangulation flashed through his mind like the diagram of an intricate patent. Hal remembered from his training that bipeds are essentially unstable. No matter how a person stands, there is a point in space where they are most vulnerable to falling over. Hal had to find that balance point of his attacker by sensing where his feet were. The knee and shin bracing against his back gave him that information. Hal thrust his head backward, reverse-head-butting the attacker. Hard enough to get the attacker to ease his grip for a moment. And long enough for Hal to use leverage. Still holding the cord, Hal lunged downward with all his might. Toward the attacker’s balance point on the ground in front of him. Flipping the attacker over the top to a hard landing on the ground in front of him.
Hal moved to subdue him and another attacker appeared from his right. Wielding a knife. Hal saw that it was a tactical, fixed-blade knife, which told him these guys were professionals. A third attacker appeared from his left. The knife lunged forward. Hal swiped at the man’s wrist, blocking the knife and in the same motion releasing the man’s grip — depositing the knife in his own hand. Three against one became three against Hal with a knife.
Hal’s attackers were all head-to-toe in black, but something was off with them. Hal couldn’t make out their faces. Their facial features were blotchy and surreal. Muddled skin tones and textures. Hal couldn’t dwell on it too long, seeing the third man pull a 9mm sidearm from his coat. Hal charged as the man brought the gun up to aim. Hal’s left arm thrust in to the inside of the man’s arm. Throwing off his aim while Hal buried the knife in the side of the man’s neck.
An attacker lunged from the right. Hal stepped fast. Twisting a heel in the dirt toward the attacker to give him leverage, then delivering a thundering elbow to the charging man’s face. Fracturing his cheekbone.
All the attackers were down. Hal stood over them. He eased closer for a better look at their faces, and at once the attackers vanished. Hal heard a faint, but familiar voice. “Mission prep is complete. Put him under and prep for mapping sim brief.” It was the voice of Beacon. Hal’s vision went black and he felt groggy.
Trest stood behind the open doors of the box in Hangar 302, looking toward the side wall of the hangar. Pads lined the wall and floor of a section of the hangar all the way to the doors. A sweaty, shirtless man wearing virtual-reality headgear stood motionless on an omni-directional trainer. It had an angular bowl-shaped floor that looked like a steel drum, which allowed the user to walk or run in place in any direction, while wearing the VR headgear.
Three men rose from the ground near the shirtless man, wearing bear-suits. Thick padding and lacrosse helmets, covered in hundreds of tiny white balls. Motion-capture dots that served as reference points for animation. They could be made to look like anything in the virtual reality computer. In this case — three attackers in black.