End of Innocence
Chapter 23
Library Office, Manhattan, December 2013
Data mining efforts launched by the Machine had recently uncovered a pattern of travel among unlikely destinations. Taken along with a parallel uptick in coded transmissions between them and reports of new military strikes at the southern border of Turkey, her intel had prompted a fresh analysis of this hotspot.
She began with the missile strikes themselves: their timing and pattern, and later, the forensics on materials recovered from the blast sites. Initial satellite trajectory data suggested launch sites from over the border in Syria.
A late call of responsibility had come from ISIL, rebel Islamic State actors inside of Syria. However, the border between Turkey and Syria was well-known to observers as leaky – the site of thousands of crossings – men and women destined to join ISIL forces. Interestingly, there'd been no attempt by the Turkish government to stop it. So, why then would ISIL be firing missiles into Turkey? Why chance a NATO military response like this? The Machine had dug in deeper for answers.
High-level communications had taken place between the U.S., England, and Germany, responding to an urgent request for assistance from their NATO ally, Turkey. Negotiations produced a pledge of six Patriot missile batteries – delivered from European sites first, with the rest coming later from the U.S.
NATO had made it clear that these missiles were meant to serve a purely defensive and deterrent purpose and not to be used to launch attacks across the border into Syria. Tensions were already high in the region, and a western presence in the territory straddling Europe and the Middle East could certainly inflame an already-precarious situation.
Against this backdrop, the Machine had been monitoring communication streams, both public and private, between the parties – and this eavesdropping had allowed her to uncover a pattern of parallel communications. The covert messages traced back to a puzzling source: what appeared as the site of a 'garment factory' in the heart of Hong Kong.
Regular, coded transmissions sourced there had started the month prior to the first ballistic missile strike in southern Turkey. More bursts of transmissions had preceded each missile strike thereafter: a clear signature demanding her analysis and on-going monitoring.
And widely reported in the news at the time were a series of visits by mid-level officials, dispatched from the same European governments providing the first Patriot batteries. The delegations had traveled to each of their own installations in southern Turkey – amidst a public media blitz. Their intention was clear – send a public message to the rebels: cease the attacks.
More missiles ensued.
In response, a tour of all the missile sites, by the Secretary-General of NATO, was quickly arranged for early January, just two weeks away. Major media outlets from all over the world would cover the visit. His tour would end with an official welcome and show of appreciation at the U.S. missile site in rural southern Turkey.
This morning, the Machine had picked up a quick burst of coded transmissions from that same Hong Kong garment factory – first to a city in Turkey, then to a site in Syria. Each had gone silent after that.
Her question, why, had splashed into a thousand possibilities, each branch branching, until a decision tree had formed. And over the top, she'd layered her probability tree. Still early – the probabilities needed some time to mature. More data would help with trending the probabilities.
Still – there were already flashes of red showing up on her tree.
Cabin, Cimarron, Colorado, morning
Before the sky had started to show its first glimpses of morning light, Reese had finally given in and gone to bed – stretched out in his usual spot on the couch in the living room. Without the tether of IV tubing to disturb his sleep, he'd dropped off quickly this time.
Maybe the calmest sleep he'd had since – well, seemed like forever ago:
Grandfather's cabin, Colorado, 1986
Another mountainside. He'd turned fourteen that year.
Walking up the drive, rutted and rough, from the fishing stream, young Reese sported a couple of native cutthroat trout dangling from his line. Covered with black dots and with the telltale red slash across their throats, he'd been lucky to pull these two in. His first hit had gotten away.
Smelled the woodsmoke drifting out of the stack on the roof. A streak of rust had worked its way down the roof, like a red-brown dribble, staining the steep silver pitch. He glanced to the window next, facing out onto the rutted road. Sometimes, this time of day, he'd catch his grandfather watching through the window for him. Not today.
He'd be happy with the catch, though. They'd get 'em cleaned and ready to cook – dragged through a little flour with some salt and pepper sprinkled in, then laid into the hot oil at the bottom of the old iron pan. Wouldn't take long, flaky and tender, and so fresh. A few potatoes and some greens on the side – good eatin' at the cabin tonight.
Later on, leaning on the porch rail as evening deepened, the smell of the pines'd come in heavy on the breeze. Curtains swayed and the night sounds started: peepers peeping near the woods; owl's hoot; bats fluttering, chasing insects in the air; and off in the distance, coyotes calling.
Summer in the mountains. Couldn't find a better place to be. Clear air, bright sun, long easy nights like this – made the days feel endless. If nothing ever changed, he'd be happy living his life here. Everything he needed, right here on the mountain.
Felt like it'd never end.
Heard a sound, far off in the woods. Like a buzzing. Turned his head, looking for the source.
There it was again.
Stared into the darkness, under the trees. The sound had stopped again. Couldn't find it.
Buzzing again – and this time he recognized the sound. Groaning and reaching:
"Hey, Bud, how's it goin'?"
Reese checked the time, one eye open just enough to see. When an answer hadn't come, a curse on the other end.
"Called too early, didn't I?" he said.
"Don't sweat it, Chase. Up late," he said, in a craggy whisper-voice. Chase could hear the sleepy sound in his voice.
"Maybe not so bad then. Just callin' to see if ya need anything. I gotta couple a days off comin' up, so if yer runnin' low, I can bring it around."
"Think I'm good for now. Takin' Shaw down to the airport. She's got a flight lined up."
"Huh. When's that?"
"Tomorrow sometime. She's gotta get back."
"Why don't I swing by and pick ya up, then. Probably shouldn't be drivin' yet, right?"
Reese thought about it, but before he could answer, Chase insisted on driving the two of them.
"I'll get the time and text you, Chase. Thanks," he said.
"Good deal. See ya tomorrow, Brother."
Reese clicked the phone off and started to slide it back on the table, when his eyes caught her shape, curled up under a blanket on her cushy chair. She was staring at him with those dark, liquid eyes. His face crinkled.
"Missed the crick in your neck?"
"Shut up, Reese," and she closed her eyes again, smirking.
He dropped back to his pillow. Maybe he'd get back where he'd left off in his dream.
Minutes passed. Started to notice the morning sounds around him: a chorus of birds chattering in the trees, tick of the clock on the hutch, snap of the logs in the woodstove, refrigerator humming. The sunshine on the cabin walls made the wood creak and groan. Reese laid there, silent, just listening.
Heard her breathing over there. Softly.
Felt strange to see her like this. Shaw didn't like to let her guard down. But, he watched her face: smooth, relaxed. Then the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw where it met her neck. Like seeing her a different way, this way.
Wished he could tell her. The feeling he had – like an ache inside, and sharp when he thought about her leaving. He'd wanted to say it, how relieved he'd felt, looking up and seeing her that night. Even through the shakes and the sweats – remembered a kind of relief washing over him.
Wasn't lost on him, he could've bought it that night – like a dozen other nights. Frozen to death in the cabin that night, bled to death or shot with his own gun by Alonzo Quinn, another.
Except for her.
She'd been the reason he'd survived. And it pulled at him. Never expected to make it this long. People like him didn't.
Reese found himself awake, eyes on her face over there. He slipped his blanket to the side and rolled up to sitting, palm pressing the hole in his side, and the strain in his face.
He bent himself forward to ease the pull. Pain flared, but he forced himself forward to lean to her. The blue of his eyes changed.
"I'll find a way, Shaw," in his whisper-voice. He reached out his hand and lowered it down on her blanket. Felt her stir under his hand.
"I'll find a way," he whispered.