-Encounter 3 -

Major Hemmings sat, looking down as the CH-47 Chinook brought him into the large helipad, the dual-rotors nearly deafening even inside the cargo space. A small smattering of troops, active army personnel being repositioned, sat in the jump seats around the fuselage of the interior cargo space, most looking bored and tired, a few even napping lightly. Jack watched out the window as the Chinook completed its landing, air crew moving onto the field as the rotors spun down. Jack stood up first, stretching slightly, wincing at the small pops his stiff back made as his vertebrae loosened after the long trip. The other passengers, most far younger than he, didn’t seem to have the same problem. Jack sighed at yet another reminder that he was getting older. The back cargo hatch opened and the men disembarked, Jack leaving last. He wasn’t met by anyone, which was how the Major preferred it. He walked towards the central building on the army base.

The main building was a spartan affair, colored and stuccoed with a light beige color, matching the dirt and terrain around the base. No decoration outside, matching the utilitarian look of the rest of the buildings on base. The only thing that differentiated the building from the others, apart from the size difference, was a dark green tag on the side, proclaiming the building’s ‘Main Entrance’ and, above that, ‘HQ’. This was the place, then. Major Hemmings stepped inside and was met by an aide that shuffled him through the interior space of the building, awash with working men and women going about their business, and directly to the door marked with a silver star, denoting the office beyond as belonging to the base commander, Brigadier General Silva.

The General’s office was just large enough to confer authority without being big enough to be pretentious. The carpeting was plush and the paneling was oak, but the desk was more serviceable than ostentatious and the chairs arranged around it were obviously chosen for comfort. Behind the General’s desk was a pair of large windows that looked out onto the base’s parade ground; the blinds were currently lowered over these and slatted, filling the room with waning afternoon light and cutting the room off from the rest of the world. Along the north wall was a line of screens and consoles, mostly off now, and a drinks cabinet, closer to the ground. It was against this that a thin man in a dark suit and an angular, olive-complexioned face was leaning. Major Hemmings saluted the General as he entered the room, sparing half a glance for the man in the suit as well.

The General smiled as the Major came in. “Jack, delighted you could come in. At ease, son, at ease. Take a seat.” The General was seated expansively behind his desk with a glass tumbler by his hand and an unlit cigar between his fingers, and it was with this that he waved Jack towards one of the seats in front of the desk. The General smiled again, as if to say here we are all together, isn’t this nice. “Get you anything, Major? A drink, perhaps?”

Jack dropped his salute and gave General Silva a smile, “Scotch, if you have it, General.” He slid into the seat indicated.

Silva twirled the cigar between his fingers and set it on his desk. “Mr. Daub, be so good as to fix the Major a Scotch.” The warmth in the room instantly dropped by two or three degrees. Mr. Daub, stiff-backed, hesitated a moment before opening the cabinet and wordlessly pouring out a drink. He carried it over to Jack, handed it to him, and walked back to his post next to the drinks cabinet. Jack gave the man a nod, “Thank you... Mr. Daub.”

Mr. Daub’s stern expression didn’t waver. He had the look about him of a stalking crane, always watching some fish under the surface and about to strike. He had no drink himself. The General swished the amber liquid around his own glass, staring into its depths, and it suddenly dawned on Jack that General Silva did not like this man or being put in this situation, whatever it was. “Have you made any in-roads, Major? My superiors are understandably eager for developments.”

Jack glanced at Daub, giving the man another look. Whoever could make General Silva this edgy was somebody with a lot of clout. Jack pegged him for a civilian, but beyond that it was hard to say. Jack returned his focus to General Silva, “We made our first major strike last night, sir. We captured eleven focuses, and killed one. The on-site leader told me it was done in self-defense. Regardless, though, they’ve been transported to IMPCOM headquarters and are being debriefed as we speak - after being injected with the Anti-Improbability serum, of course.” Jack internalized a frown, keeping his outward expression neutural. How many more focuses might have died from being given the serum? He’d find out when he returned to IMPCOM.

Silva leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Really.” He looked at Mr. Daub, eyebrows raised, something passing between them unsaid. He turned back to Jack. “That is excellent news, Jack, really quite excellent news. You and your entire team are to be commended.”

Jack chuckled, “Just doing my job, sir. As ordered.” He took a small sip of the scotch and exhaled as the burning sensation of the strong alcohol hit his stomach. It was good scotch, too, something in short supply.

The General leaned farther back, studying the ceiling. “And you think you are closing in on their ringleader, then?”

Jack smirked. “Focus 772 was there. He’s a slippery one, though. The real objective for this operation was disruption and capture efforts. We want the other Focuses afraid to go to 772, make them think twice before joining people that the U.S. Government have branded as ‘terrorists’.”

Mr. Daub coughed sharply at the word ‘terrorists’, forcing Silva to glance at him in sharp annoyance. They exchanged another private look and the General straightened in his chair, turning brusque. Business at last. “Well. I look forward to reading your report.” Then he picked up a slim manila folder and tossed it to Jack. “What the hell is this,” the General demanded to know, without a hint of warmth.

Jack stifled his surprise, and glanced down at the envelope. He recognized the seal on the corner immediately, but flipped it open, for the General’s benefit. “My request for additional information on the man known as Citizen One, General Silva.”

“He already knew that, shithead,” Mr. Daub said.

“Quiet,” Silva barked out of the corner of his mouth. To Jack, “I know what it is, Major. I just don’t know why. If it’s your idea of a joke, your sense of humor is pretty piss poor from where we’re sitting.”

Jack blinked, looking from Daub to Silva with confusion. After a moment he said, “No joke, General Silva, sir. This is a legitimate request. When I began work at IMPCOM, Citizen One was one of my initial inquiries, and I was sent a report, but it was... basic. Sir, to be honest, it appeared... doctored. I’m not an idiot, sir. So I sent this request for additional information. Citizen One is still out there, and if he’s anything like how I remember him, he’s still dangerous and angry as ever. If he ever got wind of the existence of the Focuses... hell, if he is a Focus, he could become more dangerous than 772 ever could be.”

Daub crossed his arms and half-sat on the General’s drinks cabinet. “You already have a job, Major Hemmings. Track existing Focuses and neutralize them. Resurrecting bogeymen does not get your job done, and neither does chasing wayward family members across five continents.”

Major Hemming’s eyes narrowed as he turned his attention on Daub. “With all due respect, Mister Daub, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. What part of the government do you work for?”

The General emptied his glass. “Mr. Daub here is … privileged.” The general swallowed the mouthful painfully. “I’ve been convincing him that your request was a misunderstanding of some kind.” The general swallowed painfully, then narrowed his eyes at Jack. “What did possess you to file the request? Did you roll over one morning and decide to start looking up your old Island buddies, starting with the most demented? We both know you have more than enough work to do.”

Jack frowned, “Sir, looking up Citizen One is well within IMPCOM’s operational parameters. We’ve already determined that ex-cons that spent as much time on the island as Citizen One did have an over 65% chance of becoming Focuses, and that means that there is an appreciable chance that Citizen One has become a Focus since he’s been back on the mainland. And, sir, I’ve sent similar requests for additional information on ex-contestants before, and have never had this issue. I was given a basic dossier, and nothing more, on Citizen One, and when I submitted a request for a detailed or in-depth background, or even a military file if one exists, I get nothing. When I put in a special request for all materials related to Citizen One, I get dragged down in the middle of an important operation to get scolded like a naughty child. So, General, Mister Daub, explain to me where I went wrong, or how my actions were untoward enough to warrant this.”

General Silva and Daub both consider Jack coldly, calculatingly. Daub spoke. “You already have the dossier. You are unsatisfied. Why?”

Jack spoke clearly, because Mr. Daub obviously hadn’t heard him the first time, “Because the dossier that was given to me didn’t add up. Missing time, lots of information repeated, things that it said Citizen One did that were completely out of character. It looked like a load of bullshit, Mister Daub, like some temp working for an agency had slapped together a biography on somebody that they’d never met or heard of. I know this government, sir, and how well we document things. There was too much missing not to raise a red flag.”

Silva again let Daub hold forth, after a brief sigh. “Major, I assure you the people I answer to and I have every confidence in your abilities; even if I have an unpleasant job to do. You are not an idiot; obviously the documents are fake. I know it, the General knows it. You know it.” The general stared at Jack severely, revealing nothing. “The question that I have been sent to ask - that our government asks - is why does Major Jack Hemmings, loyal soldier and patriot, insist on the unexpurgated version, if he already knows it’s been put on the high shelf?”

Jack frowned, “I didn’t realize that Citizen One was a taboo subject, Mister Daub. It’s one thing to be sent falsified records, and it’s another thing to have a request for more information denied. This feels less like a denial and more like a court-martial. What interests me is the why of this: why would whatever organization you work for send you down to have a talk with Silva, who then felt the need to call me, bring me here, and tell me that my request was denied. Because last time I checked, they had a stamp for that. Red ink. I think you know the one. This feels excessive. So, the question that I, loyal patriot that I am, have to ask, is... what’s in Citizen One’s file that you don’t want me to see?”

Silva glanced at the thinner man before turning back to Jack and spreading his hands in a supplicating gesture, his voice reconciliatory. “Can you imagine a bigger hornet’s nest to stir up? Citizen One? Why not call up the Joint Chiefs and tell them Osama bin Laden is back and he’s opening an airline. Do you have even a shred of evidence to indicate that One is anything but neutralized? While I have the full assurances of superiors - yours and mine - that that threat is gone.”

Jack looked surprised. “That’s news to me, sir. I was never made aware that Citizen One was neutralized. His fake dossier did not reflect that. As far as I knew, the last that had been heard of him was that he had escaped the Island. Successful or not in his escape, the case was cold, not closed. I was operating under the assumption that he had been successful. Assuming that he failed is a good way to miss things, and a bad way to operate when you don’t have confirmation that your target is neutralized.”

The General eased back in his chair, putting his hands on his stomach and smiling again. “There, you see Daub? I told you it was something perfectly harmless. Man was just overzealous. Hunting ghosts.”

Daub cleared his throat. “I’m relieved.” He managed not to sound it. “Obviously, Major, nothing you have discussed here can be repeated. C. One’s status is classified.” Heavily, “Under that condition... .” Mr. Daub picked up a much thicker folder off the edge of the desk and handed it to Jack.

Jack nodded, interest evident on his face, “Understood. Does this folder go with me, or would you like me to simply read it here, and return it?” He hoped that it was the former. He doubted he’d be given the time he’d need to read the full dossier.

Daub looked at Silva. Silva shrugged. Daub turned back to Jack. “You have the appropriate security clearance for the material in that folder. Anything beyond is,” and he made a gesture with fingers and breath to indicate, impossible, immaterial.

Jack flicked the cover open and began paging through the report, trying to ignore the eyes on him. Codename “Citizen One’s” birth name was given as Charles Clark, parents Roger and Ethel Clark. Both deceased; Ethel in 2091, when Citizen - Charles - would have been 14, and Roger in 2112. Hometown was a sleepy burg north of Anchorage, Alaska named Hardnose, population 3,138, where his father worked as a master carpenter. Charles’ school transcripts hinted at a solitary but exceptionally intelligent young man who preferred working with his hands to the confines of classrooms. By sixteen he was helping his father in his trade, working part-time as an auto-mechanic, and doing other odd-jobs around town. Mostly self-taught, he enlisted at 18 while working towards several degrees in engineering, electronics, surveillance, and psychology. It was certainly an... eclectic mix of interests.

There things became stranger. It looked like he was originally stationed to the Army Corps of Engineers, then transferred- twice, but in both cases the reason for the transfer and the precise branch he was joined to were buried under black ink. His postings, when they weren’t censored out, were to some of the worst hot-spots in the world, but there was no indication he held a combat post - or that he was even still part of the army at all. Whatever his work, he entered the private sector in 2106 as a ‘consultant’. There was a partial list of his clients - the ones that weren’t blacked out were large, industrial companies likely to have overseas operations in what might politely be termed “unstable regions”. Reading between the lines, Charles Clark alias Citizen One was involved in security - in some nebulous way. Beginning to feel frustrated, Jack turned a page only to find the beginning of Charles’ Island career, which he skimmed through. There was even more violence, volatility, deviousness, and sheer determination than Jack had previously been aware of. Through it all, Citizen One never ceased to undermine Island authority and attempt to escape.

Jack closed the folder on that chapter for now, attention returning to the room and the two men staring intently at him. The sun had slipped farther down behind the slats. General Silva and Mr. Daub both seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move, so he took a breath and did. “Doesn’t say anything about his final... disposition, sir.” He chose to deliberately ignore Daub for the moment.

“No,” Daub answered anyway. “It doesn’t.”

“But he’s been dealt with,” Jack repeated, careful to keep his tone flat.

“He is no longer,” Mr. Daub iterated, choosing his words with great care, “an issue.”

“Now that your curiosity is settled, I assume this matter is at an end,” Silva grunted, finally sticking the cigar in the corner of his mouth and lighting it. This seemed to be the signal that Silva had heard and said all he would on the matter, and that they should get out of his office now.

Jack scrambled to his feet, making sure to keep a grip on his folder, and saluted. Mr. Daub extended a hand that he shook and then he was striding down the corridors out of the building and back to the helipad, where a Chinook - perhaps the same one - waited to carry him back. As he sat down and the rotors whined louder, lifting off the ground, he felt like his head was spinning, and not just from the Scotch. Just what the hell had he been handed back there?