Barry Lando: Deep Strike

Fountainhead Regional Park

Steve got little sleep that night. Questions about Brian’s death continued to roil his mind. He wandered about his apartment in Falls Church, tried to read a book, peed a couple of times, downloaded the latest episode of Homeland , paused it after the first five minutes, turned off the TV, and stared out the living room window at a few distant street lamps. The silence in his apartment was total. What would it be like, he wondered, to no longer be alone?

At the first pearl-gray light, he brewed coffee and had breakfast reading the morning’s Washington Post . At eight, he called the agency and told the assistant of the deputy director that he was ill: headache, vomiting, diarrhea, probably the flu. He’d probably be out for several days. He’d check back tomorrow. First time he’d ever taken sick leave; must be age creeping up.

He slapped together a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches, grabbed an apple, an orange, and four bottles of water and put them in his black backpack along with a thermos of coffee. Then he donned his biking gear and loaded his mountain bike on the back of the Jeep Wrangler.

It took less than an hour to drive to Fountainhead Regional Park. He’d come here several times over the past few years with Brian to go biking, fishing, and kayaking. The last couple of times Brian’s sons came as well, protesting because they weren’t yet allowed to tackle the Bear Claw.

Steve turned in the park’s entrance, past the ranger station, and then continued through the thick woods for twenty minutes until he reached the gravel parking lot at the bottom of the Bear Claw. There were no other cars around. It was still damp and gray with a morning chill in the air. He unloaded his bike, put on his light red parka and the backpack. He checked his tires and brakes and gears, clipped on his thermos and started up the trail. It was rutted and muddy in places. A huge storm had swept through the area the night of Brian’s death. Three inches of rain fell in less than an hour.

It had been more than a month since Steve had last biked. It felt great to ride again; the resentment and anger that consumed him over the past few weeks drained away. The trail wound through the hemlock and birch forest for a few minutes before it began to challenge the steep mountainside.

He had started mountain biking near Seattle when he was seven years old. His brother, Benjy – three years younger – often tagged along, at first peddling madly, often screaming his frustration at not being able to keep up with Steve. But Steve now was fifty-three; he’d tackled the Bear Claw a few times with Brian, but only on condition that the younger man curb his wicked pace.

Perhaps it was time, thought Steve, to follow his doctor’s advice: back off that bone-jarring excuse for a sport before you wind up a cripple. Today, in fact, he found himself particularly out of shape and stopping every twenty minutes or so to take deep breaths and drink some water. After an hour, his leg muscles were cramping; his shirt was drenched in perspiration.

To distract himself from the pain, he thought back again to the last time he saw Brian in O’Shaughnessy’s. It was a particularly raucous evening, the bar packed with young government apparatchiks on the make, intent on impressing each other, bewailing the latest follies of their idiot bosses. For some reason no one could remember, the bar had also long been a hangout for folks from Langley who lived in the area, like Steve and Brian.

That evening, as often happened, they were joined by the two other officers who’d been a key part of the Russian hacking team. It was the same duo, Steve thought sadly, who’d also gathered at Brian’s funeral, Charlie Doyle and Sarah Levin. Their attention was riveted that evening on the news program on the large screen above the bar. In the boisterous barroom there was no chance of deciphering the sound, but they were following the subtitles. Correspondent Ed Diamond was interviewing a former head of the CIA, who denounced the Russian hacking as “equivalent to the attacks of 9/11.”

“That’s going a bit far,” said Sarah.

“Agreed,” nodded Charlie. “It just…”

“You’re full of shit,” Brian interjected. “It’s not just the Kremlin playing games with the U.S. government. Not just the sanctions. Stokes and his buddies are also going to make billions from their secret deals with Moscow. You can fucking well bet on it!” He thumped his glass on the table, knocking over a half-empty bottle.

“For Christ’s sake, Brian!” Steve jumped up to avoid getting his slacks drenched. The younger agent’s public outbursts were becoming ever more frequent. He was losing his grip and turning into a sloppy, noisy drunk. At first, Brian only ranted about going to the media over the way the hacking investigation had been squelched. Now he upped the ante.

“Whining to the press is going to achieve fuck-all,” he raged as the waitress wiped up the table. “It’s not going to stop the bastards. We’ve got to do something.”

“Like what,” asked Sarah.

“Take action ourselves. We can’t let Stokes get away with it.”

“Easy to say,” said Sarah. “But how?”

“Develop a real plan and make the pricks pay!” said Brian.

“Like how?” Charlie scoffed.

“I don’t know,” Brian shot back. “There’s got to be something.” He looked at the other agents his eyes wild. “Do we just sit here like a bunch of dumb fucks and watch it happen?”

Steve realized that the others were just as riled up as Brian, but also had no idea what to do. They’re waiting for someone more seasoned to lead, he thought. They’re waiting for me to come up with some wild plan, to give the signal. But I’m having none of it .

“Look, I’m as pissed off as anyone,” he finally said, looking slowly around the table. “But there’s no way I’m joining any suicidal crusade. It would be crazy, futile. A rear-guard action and naïve at best, fatal at worst. Stokes is the president. Get used to it!”

Brian glared at him, red-faced. “So you’re bailing out!”

“Exactly.” Steve said, refilling his glass. “There’s a small island near Vancouver, Canada. You pick up oysters off the beach. Dig for clams. I’ve got a cabin there and a good pension. I can make money on the side as a consultant. So don’t count on me.”

He raised his glass in a mock toast. His gaze took in not just his fellow agents but everyone watching from the bar. “If Americans want to commit national suicide by turning over their government to a president who’s probably linked in some way to Russia, ruled by a Russian leader who worked for the KGB, so be it. I’m outta here.” There was some laughter and spotty applause from a few other people in the room, not sure what to make of the boozy dispute between Steve and his fellow agents.

Brian was now standing over Steve, his face livid. “You know what, Penn, you’re chickenshit!” He took a wild swing at Steve, missed, and crumpled to the floor. He lay there for a few seconds then tried to get up. There was more applause and laughter from the bar.

“Someone should take him home,” said Steve. He downed the rest of his drink and left.

That was the last time he had seen Brian alive, thought Steve as brought his attention back to the biking trail. It was far more rugged than he’d remembered. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, his heart thumping. He was gasping for breath. He stopped, dismounted, and continued pushing his bike around boulders and up the muddy mountain track. He was no longer sure what the precise point of this morning’s exercise was. He just knew he had to see where Brian died.