Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  I picked up one of the ivory pieces on the hutch. It was a rocking chair, delicately carved with incredible detail. My mother had inherited the collection from her grandmother. There was a tiny tea set, a miniature chess table, and a horse rearing on its hind hooves. There was no rhyme or reason to the odd variety of pieces, but she cherished them all.

  “You can have these,” I told my cousin, holding up the rocking chair. “They meant a lot to my mom, so I don’t want to sell them. I’m afraid I’d break them.”

  She blinked, taking the rocking chair from my hand. “Thank you, Jackson. That is very thoughtful of you.”

  Looking around the room, I noticed the glass dining table was gone, as was the rug that covered the floor under it. The wood flooring was a lighter shade of oak where the rug had been. The living room was devoid of furniture. My mother liked antiques. They were valuable, I guess.

  I walked past the fireplace and to the entry into my parents’ bedroom. At the opposite end of the room was their unmade bed. For whatever reason, the movers hadn’t touched the bed or the tables on either side. The pillows were askew, the cream-colored sheets rippled atop the brown blanket. I walked to the foot of the bed and looked above the oak headboard at the painting my dad loved.

  It was a large replica of a famous painting. At least that’s what my dad told me. He called it a “print.” He was proud of it.

  It was an abstract with blues and grays and browns. The browns were supposed to represent a card table, my dad had explained. And the other items dotted across the painting were items on the table.

  There was a bunch of grapes, a teacup, and a bunch of lines that made no sense to me. Some random letters graced the middle of the print, adjacent to a pair of playing cards. One was a spade, the other a heart.

  “It’s simple,” my dad once told me, admiring the work one morning, “but it’s not boring. I could see myself there.”

  “It looks like a mess,” I’d said to him. “I don’t get it.”

  “I don’t really get it either,” he’d admitted. “I just like it.”

  The artist was Georges Braque. The piece was Still Life With Playing Cards.

  My dad liked cubism. He said the world was so crazy, but most people couldn’t see it. He said they saw everything as ordered and linear, but that cubists saw life as it really was; jumbled and chaotic. All the pieces were there, he told me. He said they were just struggling to fit into the right spot, if in fact there was a right spot for them at all.

  That only confused me further. But as an adult, whose life is jumbled and out of sorts, I get it now.

  I thought about offering the print to my cousin, but didn’t. I walked back to the doorway to their room and shut the door. Apprehensively, I walked back to the bed and stood on my father’s side. Dad was always on the side of the bed closest to the door. My mother felt safer that way, she’d explained.

  At first, I couldn’t bring myself to touch the sheets. It was like a force field was preventing me from moving my hands too close. Drawing in a deep breath, the force field gave way and I pressed my palms flat onto the bed and gripped the sheets, squeezing the handfuls of threaded cotton as tightly as I could. Then, without thinking, I threw myself face first onto the unmade bed, burying myself in the linens. I could smell them; the soap they used in the shower, the aftershave my dad applied to his neck and chin, the baby powder lotion my mom used on her arms and legs. They were alive!

  And for the first time since their deaths, I felt that thick, dry lump in my throat. It burned, and my eyes welled. Muted by the sheets, I wailed. I remember feeling my tears in the dampness of the fabric. Each time I inhaled, on the verge of hyperventilating, I could sense their presence in the scents they left behind.

  I was in a time capsule, visiting the past in which my parents were alive. My chest heaving up and down, slobber drooling from my mouth, I expected them to walk in and comfort me. I prayed that, in their bed, I was dreaming and being here would wake me up.

  Of course, it didn’t. I cried myself dry and my cousin knocked on their door. It was a soft, reluctant rap, as if she’d been thinking about whether or not to open the door and walk inside their room.

  “Jackson?” she called. “Are you okay?”

  Of course I’m not okay! I wanted to scream at her. How could I be okay? My parents are dead and I’m to blame!

  I sat up on the edge of the bed and wiped my face with the back of my arm. “Yes,” I told her. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  She was standing at the door, with the rocking chair in one hand, her handbag in the other. I forced a weak smile, but tried to not make eye contact with her and walked past.

  My mother’s garden was unrecognizable. Every bit as much as my parents bed was a warm hug, the garden was a knife to the gut. It was littered with dead, pest-eaten leaves. The vegetables were shriveled or blackened from inattention and a lack of water. The wooden paint-stirrers she used to label each section were faded or missing.

  It’s only been a few weeks, I thought to myself. At the edge of the plot, I knelt down onto the dry, sinking mulch that lined its exterior. A large spider moved up a thread onto the web it had woven between two staked vines.

  I considered crawling under the web and onto the soil, planting myself amongst the wasted crops. I felt like the plants, abandoned and dying, unable to seek what I needed to survive without the help of my mother.

  Closing my eyes, I remembered the afternoons spent in the garden with my mom. I thought about her smile and her laughter. I could hear her giggling at my fear of earthworms, and how I’d insist on wearing gloves to handle them.

  High above the garden, the leaves of a neighboring oak rustled from a breeze. I opened my eyes, still swollen from tears, and looked up at the branches swaying back and forth, waving at me. Another gust carried with it a handful of leaves, which floated and swirled above me before dropping into the yard behind ours.

  “Jackson?” I turned to see my cousin standing in the open doorway. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Nothing,” I brushed past her into the house without looking back at the garden again. I wanted to try and remember it the way my mother had kept it; bright and vibrant, healthy and thriving.

  Bounding up the stairs, I found my way to my room. It was warm, uncomfortably so, and dusty. I looked around at the posters on the walls and the assortment of Little League trophies perched on a bookshelf. There were a couple of Choose Your Own Adventure books and a catalog’s worth of comic books about super heroes on the shelf. It was a nice mix of DC and Marvel. I didn’t discriminate between the Avengers or the Justice League. Both fought for good.

  Under my bed was a blue lock box. It had a keyhole and a combination lock on its face and a handle on its top. I popped it open and carried it to my dad’s office.

  The office was actually a spare bedroom he’d converted into a study. On his desk was an electronic chessboard. He’d play against the computer for days, making maybe three or four moves in a week if he was playing a difficult level. I grabbed a pawn from the board. It was cool to the touch, the black marble reflecting the light peeking in from the room’s lone window. On the edge of the desk was a brown leather photo album. It was a Father’s Day gift from my mother and she’d filled it with family photographs.

  Flipping through it I saw the three of us in Key West, posing by the famous marker for the southernmost point in the United States. There was a photograph of my dad’s college rifle team. There were a couple of pictures from a trip my dad took to Ukraine and a few from my parents’ honeymoon. I folded the album shut and placed it in the box.

  I moved to the closet and swung open the accordion doors. His gun safe was gone. There was a single red shotgun shell on the floor. I picked it up and put it in the box.

  “We need to go,” my cousin called up the stairs. “I have to get back to work, Jackson.”


  When I got to the bottom of the steps, she reached into her pocket and pulled out some jewelry. “These were your mom’s. She was wearing them when…”

  “Thanks.” No need to hear more. I reached into her hand and pulled my mom’s wedding ring and a pair of diamond earrings. They found a place in the blue lock box and we made our way from the house to her car.

  My life to that point had been reduced to the contents of a container I could carry with me. It hasn’t changed all that much.

  ***

  Mack’s waiting for us at the 7-11 across the street from the Taco Bell. He’s sitting in his SUV, slurping on a Big Gulp when we climb inside.

  “You ready?” I ask him. “Our hacker says everything is ready to go.”

  “You have what I need?” Mack checks his side view mirror. “Everything has to be good to go for this to work.”

  I hand him the netbook and the documents Wolodymyr prepared. “They’ll pass.”

  “Let’s do this, then,” Mack plops the drink into the cupholder. “I’ll have my phone dialed in so that you can hear what’s happening. Cool?”

  Bella checks her phone. “Cool. I’m tracking your movements, so we’ll be able to see where you are.”

  “If you get caught, you need to run,” I say.

  “As best I can,” he says, gesturing to his legs.

  “Understood,” Bella and I hop out of Mack’s SUV and he spins out of the parking lot and heads south toward Brookhaven’s main entrance.

  Bella and I return to our SUV and wait for the fireworks. She pulls up the tracking app on her burner and shows me the screen.

  There’s a flashing blue dot moving along a map. It looks like Google Maps with different colors. Within a couple of minutes, the app indicates Mack is in the Visitor Center where he’ll check in. I connect my phone to the Bluetooth in the Suburban so we can listen to Mack, who’s wearing a wireless earpiece for his phone.

  “Hello,” a woman says. The audio is somewhat muffled. “Welcome to Brookhaven. May I help you?”

  “Yes,” says Mack. “I have an appointment. I’m here to run a diagnostics test on the mail server.” Corkscrew came up with that terminology. She said it was vague but plausible. Access to the mail server might be an easier target than anything more secure. It would also provide access points through passwords and other secretive information carelessly sent through intraoffice email.

  “Do you have your boarding pass and driver’s license?” the woman asks. The boarding pass is a barcoded document allowing access to Brookhaven. All visitors have to create an online account and go through a verification process before being allowed access.

  Wolodymyr took care of the boarding pass and false identification. Corkscrew handled the appointment. The hacker made certain that Mack was “employed” by one of Brookhaven’s legitimate contractors.

  “Mr. Johnson,” she says. “David Johnson? You’re with one of our contractors, Ravenscroft Data Partners?”

  “Yes,” Mack says. “Here’s my company identification and my boarding pass.”

  “And your health insurance?”

  Mack produces a false health insurance card.

  “I see you have a bag,” the woman notices. “Can you confirm you are not carrying with you any of the prohibited items you see listed on the paperwork I just placed in front of you?”

  “Yes. No weapons or nuclear devices.” Mack chuckles.

  “It’s not a laughing matter, Mr. Johnson,” the woman chides.

  It’s quiet for a moment before the woman speaks again. She’s likely on a phone or intercom. “I have a Mr. David Johnson here to see Hector Nieto in IT. Could he please come to GUV to escort Mr. Johnson to the mail server facility?”

  Minutes go by before there’s a new voice. “Mr. Johnson? I’m Hector Nieto,” says the man. His voice is friendly with the faintest hint of a Hispanic accent. “I’ll be your escort.”

  Mack greets Nieto and the two of them carry on an innocuous conversation on their way to the server facility. Bella checks the GPS tracker application on her phone. They’re right off the main street running east and west through Brookhaven’s main campus.

  “This is building 515,” says Nieto. “It’s the Information Technology building. It’s lunchtime, so most everybody is out. It’ll be just you and me in the server room.” The sound of doors opening and closing resonate through the SUV’s speakers.

  “Now,” Nieto huffs as he walks, “I’m confused.”

  “How’s that?” Mack says, playing it cool.

  “Why do we even need this diagnostics check? We just upgraded this server a month ago,” Nieto says.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Mack says. “All I know is that my company tells me where to go and what to do. I go and I do. I don’t ask questions.”

  “I get that,” Nieto replies against the sound of a repetitive beeps, like he’s entering a code. “It just seems odd. I don’t know why we’d contract out this sort of thing. I checked the paperwork and it looks legit. I know Ravenscroft has done work with us in the past.”

  “Look, Hector,” says Mack. “I’m not trying to take anyone’s job if that’s what you’re worried about. Last time I checked, government work was about as secure as it comes.”

  “I guess,” Nieto grunts and there’s the sound of a metallic hum and click. “Here we go. This is the server room. Nobody is ever in here. Mail is over there on the left. I’ll wait right here.”

  After a few seconds of what sounds like Mack getting himself in position, he whispers, “We’re good. I’m just looking for the right port. Then I’ll hide it and I’m done.”

  There’s a shuffling sound and Mack starts humming, singing, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord...”

  “Hey,” Nieto says from a distance, “are you a Marine?”

  “Yes I am,” Mack says in a voice loud enough that it distorts the speaker. Then softly again, “I can’t find the port.”

  “You serve overseas?” Nieto’s voice is getting louder, as if he’s walking toward Mack. If he sees exactly what Mack’s doing, we’re toast.

  “Yes,” Mack says, “Afghanistan and Iraq. Why do you ask?” Mack whispers again, “I’m close. Hang on.” He’s breathing more heavily as he presumably works to finish what he’s doing.

  “Hey!” There’s an urgency in Nieto’s voice. “What are you doing?”

  Uh oh.

  Bella looks at me. She’s biting her lip, running a hand through her hair.

  “What’s that?” Nieto asks, his tone sharpening.

  “What’s what?” Mack says, playing clueless. There’s a zipper closing as he answers his own question. “It’s my netbook.”

  “Why is it plugged into the system like that?” Nieto asks. “That doesn’t look right to me.”

  Mack is screwed.

  “What do we do?” Bella mouths to me. She’s rubbing her palms on her thighs.

  I don’t have an answer for her. I shrug.

  “I’m gonna need an answer, Mr. Johnson,” Nieto says. “That connection seems unnecessary.”

  “Do something!” Bella pleads.

  I hang up the call with Mack and immediately dial back. It rings. Rings again.

  On the third rings Mack answers, “Dave Johnson. Can I help you?”

  “Tell him he doesn’t have the clearance to know specifically what you’re doing. But, to be a nice guy, you can tell him this is new diagnostic software just approved by the GAO for use at all government installations.”

  “I’m in the middle of something,” he says to me. “Hang on.” His tone changes.

  “Look,” Mack says to Nieto, “you need to back off. You should not confuse your rank with my authority, if you catch my drift, Hector.”

  “I asked a simple questi
on,” Nieto snaps. “You haven’t answered it.”

  “I have to consider whether or not you have the clearance to be in the loop on this,” Mack says. “You probably don’t.”

  “I have Confidential Clearance,” Nieto says. It’s the lowest of the three security clearance levels. I know this from my time with the governor and his meeting with the State Department on immigration issues. Mack likely knows this from his military experience.

  “Yeah,” Mack’s says, “that’s what I thought. Frankly, it’s why this is above your pay grade. But because you’re here and I’ll assume you’re a fellow jarhead, I’ll give you the basics.”

  “I d-d-didn’t—” Nieto stutters, backing down.

  “Of course you didn’t think or consider or defer or whatever it was you weren’t doing,” Mack chides. “Now hang on.”

  “Can I call you back?” He says to me. I’ve got a knucklehead here who’s challenging the new Security Protocol.” He pauses for effect. “You heard that? No. I won’t tell him anything above his clearance. No.”

  “You’ve got it from here,” I say and hear him pretend to hang up.

  “Now here’s the deal,” Mack says to Nieto, “DOD is testing a new security protocol. They’ve got these netbooks loaded with invisible software that surfs for keywords in emails. It uploads the keywords and email addresses and sends them straight to our Counter Terrorism folks.”

  “Seriously?” Nieto sounds impressed. “They’ve been able to do that for a while.” Or not. “This is bogus—you’re not who you say—”

  “Stop right there,” Mack snaps. “I’ve killed men for less attitude than you’re giving me right now. You have a problem? Take my phone and call whoever it is you think is gonna tell you the truth. Go ahead.”

  Silence.

  “That’s what I thought,” Mack says. “Bottom line. I’m not telling you squat. You don’t have clearance. You’re the flunky who they sent to babysit me. Now go back to your corner and wait for me to finish what I’m doing. I’m leaving this terminal hooked up to your system for twenty-four hours. Look at the order. I’ll be back tomorrow to take it back.”