Proof of Self

ONE

Eleven year old Nala Brittany-Ann Rios slipped a laminated map section from within her red Advanced Placement Algebra class binder. The section, cut from the USGA topographical map for the area around West Point Military Academy's Lake Frederick, and folded with military precision, displayed the specific quadrants where, in three short weeks, the academy was holding its annual Spring Classic paint ball tournament. After a quick look at her instructor, an irascible man in his mid-forties who considered himself to be quite worldly based solely upon the argument that he'd managed to survive M.I.T., she slipped the eight inch by eight inch navigation tool into her forest green khaki, clad lap. Then, once he turned back to scribbling line after line of proofs on the cluttered white board, she deftly folded and re-folded it to reveal the area that she needed to memorize before getting home that evening, and then secreted it between the pages of her notebook.

This spring classic would be her third, and the first year that she would truly be a part of the team. Committing the topography to memory was a task given to her by Elliot and she refused to let her surrogate uncle down. Thinking about Elliot distracted her somewhat from the map and she felt a twinge of guilt. Elliot would not approve of such a lapse in attention. After trying to shake off her meandering thoughts, she began scrutinizing the map beginning in the upper left hand corner and working her way toward the right and then down an inch square by an inch square in the manner that he'd instructed her. As she studied the terrain features, inked out in varying shades of browns and greens, she visualized them in her mind's eye as realistically as possible while pretending to walk along them. This, he'd told her, would make them a part of her memory just as firmly as if she'd walked them in person.

The sound of Dr. Byquist venting his ire at a student slow to comprehend some aspect of the un-raveling proof shifted her attention once again from the map, to Elliot and with a slight shiver she recalled the unrest caused when he'd awoken the entire household at 0245 hours by beating their front door into submission and hollering for her father. Her mother, as was the norm, had been furious about the intrusion, while her father had shown his typical unconditional concern and support. After scolding his wife for her callous disregard and sending her back to bed, Tyson had ushered Salem into the room leaving Nala stranded outside the closed Cherry wood doors wondering what had set the often troubled man off this time.

The girl sighed and made a long curved line with the finely sharpened grease pencil marking the steep ravine where she thought Salem would decide to set up their first sniper hide. The line showed the hide and their most effective field of fire. If she'd chosen correctly she knew that he would be quite proud of her. Setting the grease pencil aside she switched to her pencil and made several notations in her small waterproof notebook. It was an annotation to her supply and load out list. Just as she was finishing it the student behind her a freckle faced chubby boy with an enormous set of braces tapped her shoulder. The tap drew her attention and the next thing she heard was Dr. Byquist shouting her name.

"Ms. Rios, the next line of the proof please, if you can spare a moment of your time."

Nala cringed and snapped the binder shut. The entire class was looking at her. When Byquist used that particular tone it was readily evident that somebody was in trouble.

"We are all waiting Ms. Rios."

She cleared her throat and looked at the mass of math covering the white board. It had been at least fifteen minutes since she'd last studied the proof's progress and Byquist was not going to allow her to take time to catch up. Caught flat footed, she asked herself 'What would Salem do?' The answer, she figured, was to just give the cranky Swede an answer in as confident of a voice that she could manage.

"Big bracket, little bracket, chi sub -zero, plus psi sub-zero then…"

"Really, Ms. Rios?" Byquist sniped bemusedly, "You certainly sound quite sure of yourself. So, why don't you just march right on up here, bringing your little private project with, and write it down on my board. Once you finish you can share your little secret with the rest of us. Chop, chop, missy we do not have all day."

Nala huffed, a disgusted huff, and slid from her desk. She tucked the binder under her arm and plodded to the front of the class. Byquist held out his hand and snapped his pale, crinkly, well-manicured fingers toward the large red folder directing her to hand it over. She did so reluctantly, and then, began scribbling her answer down in green ink along the bottom of the proof.

"Quite incorrect, and what have we here?" the teacher queried opening the binder, "Mr. Hadley please step up here and finish the proof. Let's see, we have a map, a map with... is this some sort of military strategy Ms. Rios?"

"Yes sir."

"And this this is a list of weapons?"

"Yes sir."

"Ms. Rios are you aware of exactly how much money your parents and they are fine parents, pay to send you to our wonderful institution?"

"$11,323.83 a year sir, plus a $943.72 activity fee, plus…"

"Enough! I suppose that you are also aware of the long waiting list of very intelligent students who would kill to take your seat, in my A.P. Algebra class?"

" They'd have a tough time killing me, but..." The instructor glared at her and she cut herself off,

"Not the exact number sir. But, when I applied the list had 863 and…"

Byquist held his left hand up silencing her while he unfolded the map and studied it.

"Where is this location, Ms. Rios?"

"Lake Fredrick at West Point Military academy."

Dr. Byquist gasped and then, stared gape mouthed at the girl. His hands were now shaking and he'd begun sweating.

"West, West Point, West Point the Military academy? That West Point! You are planning an attack on West Point, the very bastion of training for our finest military leaders!"

The class broke protocol and a loud murmuring erupted. Nala looked over her shoulder at the group and then back to Byquist. The man was truly terrified. It was no secret that she played at war games with paint balls and Air Soft weapons, but to think that they believed she was planning some sort of home grown terror attack befuddled her.

"Sir, no sir. I plan on going to school there. Why would I attack it? It's for a paint ball tournament. The West Point Spring Classic. It's my…"

"Enough and come with me right now. We are reporting this to the proper authorities. You have sniper rifles and hand grenades on here. Dear lord, what is becoming of our children? The rest of you stay put. Someone will come and take over for me while I save West Point."

Twenty long miserable minutes later, Nala sat outside of Headmaster Laughlin's huge toffee stained, Oak office door awaiting her fate. Dr. Byquist had remained inside after Laughlin had dismissed her. The pair had tried to contact her parents, but Samantha was in a court briefing and Tyson was at the dentist. Next in the loop of contacts were Samantha's parents, but they too were un-reachable which, left Elliot and for this Nala was ecstatic. He would certainly understand why she'd risked studying the map during Algebra. He would appreciate her work ethic and understand that A.P. Algebra could wait.

The sound of the outer office door opening caught her attention, and then, she heard the receptionist tersely address whoever had entered. Judging by the tone of the woman's voice alone, Nala knew that it was Salem and she knew that the situation had just gotten off to a very bad start. All she could do was hope that whatever had set him off the night before was under control and that he'd left his temper out in his truck.

"May I help you?"

Salem stopped short and glared at the rail thin woman sitting behind what he figured had to be a multi-thousand dollar, solid Mahogany desk. Her hair shorn into what could pass as military for a man, and dyed an un-natural shade of blond barley covered her scalp, and her heavily starched and brutally pressed forest green and white academy uniform had creases so sharp that he was tempted to test them against his Randall fighting stiletto's edge.

"Got a call. Woke me up. Said to come exfil my niece."

Nope, Nala thought, he's still not settled and probably still a bit drunk.

"A call, your niece, exfil?"

"Roger that. Where do I sign and the password is Barsukh." He rambled on, while reaching for the clipboard, "Barsukh, here it is in Cyrillic. What's her twenty?"

"Her twenty? Ah, excuse my confusion, sir. I haven't called for anyone to get their niece." Then, peering around the huge desk a bit she furrowed her brow at his untidy attire, "Are you sure you have the correct school?"

Salem noted her scorn and stood up a bit straighter.

"Ms. Yancy, yes I have the correct school. She's a sort of foster niece and what the hell does it matter what I am wearing? Just visiting, not here for an education. Winthrop Academy, been here before to watch her do extracurricular stuff. So, I'm pretty beat; can you just get her and I'll be on my way."

"Does your niece have a name?"

"Nala Rios."

"Okay, now I understand. You are the one on the bottom of the contact list. Just…

"What's that supposed to mean!"

"One moment please."

Ms. Yancy lifted the handset for her phone and punched a series of numbers without taking her eyes off of Elliot.

"Sir, he's here, the last one on the contact list and sir he is not, how should I put this?" She hesitated and smiled up at Salem who was now standing with his hands in the pockets of his knee-less Levis looking very agitated, "Well, he's not attired appropriately for an audience with you, sir. Yes sir, explain it to him, certainly sir that's why the academy pays me so well."

Nala, hearing this, cringed and fought the urge to charge into the front office and just bolt from the building with Elliot in tow. It would be a running retreat, but you win some and you lose some. Before she could move, Ms. Yancy was speaking once again.

"Mr. Salem, you see we do appreciate your prompt response to our call, we truly do, but it would seem that in your haste to come to your, well your niece's side, it seems that you neglected to recall that we, here at Winthrop Academy, have and maintain a very strict dress code and that dress code includes all visitors to the campus so, that being said, we would further appreciate if you would return home, shower, ah and well comb your hair, dress appropriately collar and Khakis, and come back."

"I see. Well Ms. Yancy you just pick up that phone, and you just get the Headmaster back up on comms and you tell him that I am coming in as is. Maybe he doesn't feel like looking at me in my current attire, but I do not really give a fuck. I just got off of a transatlantic flight after dragging my little bitch ass around Afghanistan for two weeks cleaning up after some dumb fuck Marines and I am going to be two plus hours late taking my pain meds for my cracked shoulder blade from where I got shot by one of those same dumb ass Marines who was too stupid to tell a good guy from a bad guy. Are you beginning to understand where I am coming from Ms. Yancy? So up, up with the phone, because off I go."

Then, without another word Salem marched resolutely past her desk, grabbed Nala by her elbow and barged into Laughlin's office.

"Excuse me!" the startled man blurted out when Salem slammed the heavy door shut.

"I'm here; And-A-Half is here, so speak. I need a sit-rep."

"A what?"

"Clocks ticking, Laughlin."

"Dragon One?" Nala moaned.

"Mr. One if you would just calm down I can…"

"Salem name's Salem, and what did you do to Nala?"

"Us to her? Mr. Salem she's plotting an attack on West Point. Sniper rifles, grenades, shot guns, a classic pincer attack she called it, to maximize a small unit against a larger force and utilizing tight terrain features to even the force sizes. It is all on this map. That is what is going on. That is an act of terrorism."

Salem furrowed his brow and sighed. All he wanted to do was take his medicine, drink and sleep until his shoulder stopped aching, which would be in about two weeks.

"That the ravine in sector foxtrot two seven And-A-Half?"

"Yes, Dragon One."

"Put the hide three and a quarter klicks south-south east in that craggy out cropping thirty meters up slope?"

"Field of fire sixteen degrees to the west and fifty-five to the east with a marginal window to our six if we need it."

Laughlin and Byquist were staring at the duo as the conversation volleyed back and forth. No child should be so knowledgeable about warfare.

"You are a part of her plot!" Byquist shouted.

"Her plot, gentlemen, is for the West Point Spring Classic paint ball tournament. That's all; paint ball, not terrorism. Now, that this is all settled, we're outta here. Move out, And-A-Half. I hear your old man's bed calling my name."

"You sleep in her father's bed?"

Salem stopped mid-turn and stared at the two men. Was there no end to their stupidity, he wondered.

"Not his bed but my bed, in his office, let's go."

As they stepped forward the office door swung open nearly hitting them and Ms. Yancy surged in.

"Sir, we have a small situation out here."

"What now, Yancy?"

"Channels two, six, nine, thirteen and PBS and several other agencies are all here to report on the foiling, by one of our instructors, of a terror plot against West point orchestrated by an eleven year old student."

"How could they possibly know about this?" Laughlin shouted, "Byquist?"

"I might have jumped the…well no pun intended, but jumped the gun a bit by posting that I'd done it on my Facebook and maybe calling channel thirteen."

"Got a back door out of this joint, Laughlin?"

"No, why would I need one? Now what do I do?"

"Don't look at me, Harvey," Ms. Yancy snapped, "You do not pay me enough to fend off this mob."

"Looks like we charge straight into 'em And-A-Half, move out."

"Copy that, oh Mr. Laughlin sir, does this mean that I can't bring my Dragon One back next week for show and tell? He'll be properly dressed for his part in it and once he's decompressed a bit from his last op he'll be a lot easier to manage. I'll even bring daddy. He can reign him in."

"Yes, of course, Yancy get me the mayor."

Salem and Nala pushed through Yancy and headed for the exit. To Salem's dismay reporters clotted the exit and filled the parking lot. When they saw the couple coming, they converged on them.

"Back off, no, there is no plot! Move and get that camera out of her face! I said…all right that's fucking it!" Salem barked when an overly aggressive, channel two, cameraman shoved the lens of his camera right up to Nala's face bumping her forehead with it.

Salem pulled up short, reached behind his back and in a smooth motion un-holstered his little Makarov. He pointed it skyward, charged it and fired off three rounds in quick succession. Then, he grabbed the large video camera, threw it to the pavement and fired the remaining rounds into it. Finally, he dropped, and pocketed the empty clip and slammed a new one into the weapon.

The crowd recoiled and the duo continued un-encumbered toward his truck. Before they made it four police officers surrounded them.

"Drop the weapon and get on the ground. You, little girl, move away from him. You're safe now."

"Dragon One give me the gun." Nala muttered sadly.

He handed it to her grip first and got on the ground trying not to hurt his bad shoulder. She deftly dropped the new clip, held the weapon in between her right thumb and index finger and handed it and the clip to the nearest officer. Then, as two of the men were handcuffing Elliot with zero regard for his request that they not re-injure his shoulder, she squatted down beside him and reached into his front left pants pocket.

"Gimme your phone, Uncle Elliot. I'll call daddy."