Ian Slater: Darpa Alpha

The general, though smartly turned out in a fresh uniform that had been rushed to Sapporo, looked tired and drawn taking questions on the dais, especially so to Marte Price who, having had to elbow and fight her way through the Japanese press scrum, was close enough to see the creases of worry lines on Freeman’s face. Finally he held up his hands to quell the din of the media frenzy, and when several Taiwanese reporters ignored his request, he refused point-blank to begin speaking until the room fell silent, though shutters continued to click and whirr, and the bright TV lights remained, forcing him to blink more than was either normal or comfortable.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be brief. Colonel Tibbet and his marines have done an outstanding job of ridding the world of the terrorist filth who make weapons for other terrorist filth. To paraphrase a man who fought Nazi filth, ‘This is not the end, but it is the beginning of the end’ for terrorists all over the world, as we and our allies keep fighting, no matter how long and hard the road may be, until every stain of such scum as Hamas and company is expunged from the earth.” He paused as one of the two U.S. Consulate officials behind him leaned forward, whispering advice: “Easy on the ‘scum’ and Hamas. Don’t want to offend the Muslims.”

Freeman nodded politely. “It’s been suggested to me that I might be offending our Muslim brothers and sisters. Nothing could be further from my mind or from American policy. Our war isn’t against Muslims. Our war is against scum like Hamas who use whatever organization they can to spread hatred of the West in general and of America in particular.” Freeman now looked grim. “Today a young boy, a young Muslim boy, his name was Jamal, died en route to Sapporo from a mishap which, I must admit, I thought was relatively minor when we left Lake Khanka but a mishap that due to the stress experienced in our hasty but necessary evacuation, quickly proved fatal. That boy, a young boy, a young Muslim boy, was lost to us because of some scumbag in Hamas who managed to steal this boy’s young life and turn him into a potential weapon.”

The general stopped speaking momentarily, taking in a deep breath, his unsmiling expression now one of strong resolve. “I dedicate the memory of this mission, and all who made the ultimate sacrifice, to all those young people of whatever race or belief who have been killed, used, consumed by the blind hatred of Hamas and other scumbag fundamentalists. That is all.”

A barrage of questions went unanswered as General Douglas Freeman strode off the dais and out into the waiting consulate limousine, around which immaculately turned-out Japanese motorcycle police and plainclothes security personnel had formed a cordon sanitaire. But the cigarette smoke was anything but sanitary, and he was coughing before he entered the limo.

Melissa Thomas, also in a fresh uniform, was sitting on the jump seat. The general indicated that the consular official take the jump seat and Melissa Thomas sit by him. “You drink, Marine?” he asked her.

“Not much. Besides, I’m on duty, sir.”

“So am I,” said the general, who now turned to the consular official as the limousine eased away from yet another frenzy of camera flashes to the accompaniment of the police motorcycle sirens. “You have a Coke in there, son?” he asked, tapping his combat boot against the polished cocktail-bar cupboard.

“Coke? Ah, I don’t think so, General. That’s a multichannel TV.”

The general frowned at the official. “You people better get on the ball.”

“Yes, General,” said the consular official apologetically, failing to see the smirk on the marine’s face.

“Well,” the general asked Melissa, “were you watching the TV?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think they bought it?”

“I don’t understand Japanese, General,” said Marine Thomas, “but I heard some of what you said beneath the voice-over. I believed you and I saw him thirty minutes ago. He was sucking on that milk shake you ordered like it was his last meal.”

“It will be—” began the general. “Get them to turn off those damned sirens,” he told the consular official. “We’re not going to a fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the relative quiet of the limousine, Freeman continued, “It will be his last meal if those Hamas bastards get a whiff of the fact that he helped us.” He turned to the official again. “I want everything I’m going to be debriefed on sent in code. Eyes Only, by diplomatic pouch. The only other people than us to know he’s alive will be the witness protection folk who’ll have to give him the usual — new name, new identity — otherwise those scumbags’ll hunt him. If they—”

“He’ll be all right,” interjected Melissa, the consular official surprised at the ease with which this marine private was addressing the famous general.

Freeman, though still concerned, sank back in the plush leather seat. “You think so?”

“General,” she said. “May I speak freely?”

“Of course.”

“None of this,” she told the official, “leaves this car. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“Well,” she began, somewhat uneasily, “that—” Suddenly she grabbed the hold strap, her legs stiffening for impact. Both the general and consular official were on the edge of their seats, looking for the unseen danger. As quickly as it had begun, it was over, Melissa Thomas burying her head in her hands in acute embarrassment. “Oh — I–I’m sorry. I thought we’d crossed over to the wrong side of the road. I forgot they drove on the left side over here.” It gave the three of them a much-needed laugh, and it made it easier for Melissa to reassure Freeman about Jamal.

“General, that boy,” she said, “he asked me if I’d — you know.”

“You’re kidding me!” Freeman said.

“No way, sir. No, I’m not kidding. He said things — not dirty stuff but things only a — I think that only a full-grown man should know about.”

Freeman thought about it for a second. “So we should tell him he can’t do that in America. Not yet — I mean, when he gets — well — I—” Melissa Thomas saw that the legend was embarrassed. Freeman could only imagine what Catherine or Margaret would have said.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to reeducate him. It’s one thing for damned terrorists and oil sheiks to have twelve-year-old brides, but he can’t—” The general made a vague gesture which Marine Thomas took to be a stand-in for the phrase “sexual relations.” “He just can’t, that’s all.”

“He needs,” Melissa suggested, “a strong male figure to look up to, someone who’ll tell him what’s what and not take any cra — nonsense. Who can get his respect, someone like that guy on your team. Lewis, isn’t that his name?”

“Aussie?” said the general, nodding. “Yes, maybe he could keep a sort of uncle’s eye on him during the relocation program. And perhaps Jamal may be able to modify some of Aussie’s antipodean phrases.”

“He’s a polite boy,” continued Melissa. “I didn’t mean to suggest he’s — well, you know — vulgar. He just knows too much, if you know what I mean, General, for his age.”

“I understand. I’ll speak to Aussie when the team regroups. Aussie’s wife is a refugee from the JAR — Jewish Autonomous Region — in the old Soviet Union. And she and Aussie don’t have kids. She might help.” The more Freeman thought about Thomas’s suggestion, the better he liked it. “Good idea, Marine. Don’t worry; we’ll straighten him out.” The general smiled. “Already got him started on the milk shakes.”

“Oh, he knew about those,” she said, smiling back.