Alex Berenson - The Shadow Patrol

“Let me ask you something, then, Dad . Suppose I told you in two years, ‘Hey, I want to join the Army. Enlist.’ Would you be in favor of that?”

“Not as an enlisted man, no.”

“But—”

“Soldiers follow orders. If you’re concerned about the way we’re fighting, you’ve got to be giving those orders. Be an officer. That’s life. You wanted to go to West Point, get your butter bar”—the gold-colored bar that newly minted second lieutenants received—“I wouldn’t be against that.”

“But you quit. You left the agency.”

“Because I was disgusted with the politics inside Langley. But I’ll always believe that the United States has the right to defend itself.”

“Oh, so that’s what we’re doing?”

The contempt in Evan’s voice tore a hole in Wells’s stomach real as a slug. Suddenly, Wells knew that Evan had agreed to see him for one reason only. Evan despised him, or some funhouse vision of him, and wanted him to know. Wells wondered what Heather had told Evan. Or—

“Is this because I wasn’t around? Are you mad?”

“I have two real parents. I couldn’t miss you any less.”

“Listen.” Evan stiffened, and Wells knew he’d said exactly the wrong word. Then he repeated it. “Listen. You think you’re the only one wondering what we’re doing over there? Everybody who’s been there asks himself whether we’re doing any good.”

“But you keep doing it. They keep doing it.”

“Because those soldiers don’t have the luxury of second-guessing their orders. They do what they’re told, and when they’re outside the wire, they have to figure out who’s a civilian and who’s the enemy, and if they guess wrong they die—”

“They’re all volunteers. Right? They knew what they were getting into. Whatever we’re doing over there, they’re not bystanders. They’re morally responsible.”

“That makes them heroes, Evan. Not villains.”

“Just like you.”

Wells pushed himself back from the table. He’d pictured meeting his son a hundred times: hiking in Glacier National Park, rafting on the Colorado River, even driving to Seattle for a baseball game, an echo of the road trips he’d taken with his own father to Kansas City. He’d imagined Evan would want to hear the details of his missions, would ask him about being Muslim. Wells had converted during the long years he’d spent undercover, and he’d held on to the faith after coming back to the United States. He’d even wondered whether he might become something like an uncle who visited once a year. Ultimately, he’d imagined his son telling him, I want you to be part of my life.

But somehow he’d never imagined this particular disaster, this fierce, cool boy taking him apart as if they weren’t blood at all. The bitterest irony was that Evan’s dispassionate anger wasn’t far from Wells’s own casual cruelty. Wells didn’t doubt that, with the right training, Evan would be a Special Forces — caliber soldier. He had the reflexes and the size. Though this might not be the moment to mention that career path.

“Evan. You’re a strong young man, you’re politically engaged—”

“Don’t patronize me—”

“I’m not . But you think I’m a war criminal—”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Close enough. And if not me, a lot of guys I know. And that’s so far from the truth that I’m going to lose my temper soon, and I don’t want that. You’ve got to be able to separate the war from the men who fight.”

“The war is the men who fight.”

“Let me take you home, and in a few years, when you have more perspective, we can try again. If you want.”

“I’m never gonna change my mind.”

“People your age always say that.”

“Let’s go.”

WELLS WOULD HAVE LIKED to ask Evan about basketball, or girls, or his classes, all the everyday details of life as a teenager. Surely high school hadn’t changed, even if kids flirted now in 140-character bursts instead of whispered phone calls. But they’d left that conversation behind. They drove in silence. When they arrived, Heather waited on the front steps. Evan opened his door before the car had stopped. Wells sat in the car and watched him go. He’d lost his relationship with his only child without ever having one. Neat trick. After Evan disappeared, Wells stepped out of the car.

“Smart kid.”

“He is that.”

“Doesn’t like the war much. Or me.”

She turned up her hands.

“You could have warned me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would go that way and I didn’t want to jinx it. I’m sorry.”

“I like him, you know. Politically aware, intelligent — he’ll run for something one day. Something important. And win.”

“I hope so.”

“At least I don’t have to worry that he misses me. He made that clear.”

“Would you rather he did? He felt some terrible lack in his life?”

She shoots, she scores. “Maybe I’ll try again in a few years. Meantime, if you or he want to reach me—”

She stood, hugged him. “Good-bye, John.”

WELLS DROVE. He’d booked a hotel for two nights, but now he just wanted to roll on 90, let its long twin lanes carry him east. He’d grown up in Hamilton, south of Missoula, and he’d planned to visit the graveyard where his parents were buried. He’d have to wait for another trip to pay those respects.

He wasn’t angry with his son for questioning the necessity of war. Blind faith in your leaders will get you killed, Bruce Springsteen had said. But Wells could take only the coldest comfort in his pride. He’d lost any chance to connect with the boy. If Evan thought of him at all, it would be as a sperm donor, the man who’d contributed half his DNA and then disappeared.

Wells closed his eyes and counted silently to ten. When he opened them, the wide prairie on either side of the highway hadn’t changed. Time to face the truth, leave his son behind.

AND THEN HIS CELL RANG. A blocked number.

“John. You up in the woods, scaring the bears?” Ellis Shafer, his old boss at the agency. He was scheduled to retire in the spring. But Wells figured Shafer would work out a deal to stay. He claimed to have a happy life outside the agency, but he was in no hurry to get to it. Just like Wells. At this moment, Wells knew he’d buy whatever Shafer was selling.

“Montana. Visiting Evan.”

“Sojourning.”

“Is this call about the size of your vocabulary?”

“Master Duto has something for you. A mission, should you choose to accept it.”

Wells was silent.

“Before you say no—”

“I didn’t say no.”

“Must have gone badly out there.”

Wells didn’t answer.

“John?”

“I realize you enjoy demonstrating your cleverness at every opportunity, Ellis, but now is not a good time.”

“Duto wants you to go to Afghanistan.”

“He forget I don’t work for him anymore?”

“He thinks there’s a problem in Kabul, and I think he’s right.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind better discussed in person.”

Sure as night was dark, Duto had an angle here. Angles, more likely. “What’s my excuse?”

“Officially, you’ll be there on a morale mission. Also — and this will be shared privately with senior guys — you’ll be making an overall assessment of the war. Nothing in writing, just impressions that you’ll present when you get home. You go over, spend a couple days at Kabul station. Have dinner with COS”—an acronym that sounded like an old-school rapper but in reality stood for chief of station—“then visit a couple bases, meet the Joes. Talk to whoever you like.”

“Pretty good cover.”